


Reach My Eyes

by thelittleboffin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Parents, Babies, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Bisexual John, Boys In Love, Bullied Sherlock, Bullying, Comedy, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, First Time, Friendship/Love, Gay Male Character, I am actually going to attempt to write sex, John Watson is a Saint, John and Sherlock are Youtubers, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Physical Abuse, Recording, Rugby Captain John, Rugby John, Sex, Tattooed Sherlock, Triggers, Verbal Abuse, Video, Virgin Sherlock, What am I doing, YouTube, YouTubers - Freeform, aka Sherlock and John, and everybody wants to do him tbh, balletlock, heaping gay amounts of Johnlock, lol, tattoolock, vlogging - Freeform, yes sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 83,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittleboffin/pseuds/thelittleboffin
Summary: John Watson vlogs.He vlogs about his life and its ridiculous way of upturning all of his plans and tossing them into the dirt; he vlogs about his failures in the dating world, his most embarrassing school stories, his most idiotic of choices in life. He makes people laugh and smile and he does it all with a catchy slogan.Sherlock Holmes records.He records his compositions, masterpieces played on the intricate body of his favorite violin; he records his ballet performances, alone in the abandoned studio, brilliance hidden in plain sight - and he does it all with a blurred face and an anonymous name.When circumstance brings the two of them together, they realize they can redefine what it means to inspire, what it means to promote uniqueness and what it means to set forth a new beginning and reach the eyes of viewers around the world.In other words, John and Sherlock are Youtubers who somehow make their way to fame.





	1. What's On Your Face?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Boffin here.  
> I have felt really inspired to write this for a while and I am going to try my best to keep up with it.  
> Please let me know what you think so far.  
> Love you all!  
> xxx

Three.

Two.

One.

John Watson reached for the button on his small camcorder and sat back in his cheap black chair, spinning in a circle and turning to smile warmly at the little red light. "What's going on everybody," He chuckled, ocean blue eyes brightening as he bared his teeth in a fond grin, "my name is John Watson and this is what's on my face." He spun in his chair once more and threw his feet onto the top of his desk, running a hand through his ashy blonde hair and sighing, "Math class."

He let out a laugh and lunged forward, dropping his legs and resting his crossed arms on the table. "Everyone instantly groans at the very mention of the thing; amazing isn't it?" He bit his lip and shrugged, "I genuinely don't have any personal vendettas towards the subject, but it says a lot about me when I say that my favorite part of the class is having the calculator in front of me and slowly, painfully, discovering what each and every button can do."

He giggled his high pitched, infamous giggle and shook his head in amusement, "Honestly, I'll turn to my mate Mike and say, 'Watch this,' and it just blows his fucking mind."

John lifted his hands animatedly as he spoke, throwing them in the air to relay his irritation, his confusion, his merriment. He moved on further into his video talking about how he presses _'Clear'_ on his calculator fifteen thousand times before he's satisfied, how when teachers ask you to copy down notes they always stand in front of the board they're on, and about how on the first day of class you have a whole pack of pencil and erasers and by the end of the year you're left with one you arbitrarily found on the floor. He joked and brought up how algebra is only important when you're a pirate - since finding X is your main priority. He explained the fact that he has no idea how to pay taxes or raise a family but not to worry because he can find the area of a triangle and the circumference of a circle.

John Watson was relatable.

John Watson was brutally honest and utterly unabashed by the things that made him human. He was John Watson and so that's who he portrayed in front of his quaint, thirty pound camcorder. He felt no shame - only a need to express. And so he did. All in the span of a fifteen minute recording, which he ended with a smile and a wink, giggling his signature giggle and signing off by stating, "All the love to every single one of you. Catch you later."

And with that, he was ending the recording, loading the file onto his computer, editing, shortening, adding and subtracting, and exporting until he reached his utmost satisfaction.

And, with a bright smile, he uploaded his video to YouTube, the, currently, biggest and best way to have others hear you, listen to your words, reach your eyes and take in your line of sight - it was the way to connect in a day and age that relied so heavily on the modern ways of technology.

John Watson smiled as he left the video to upload, shaking with excitement and hoping his ten thousand and thirty three subscribers were doing the same.

It was more than a hobby - making people smile, laugh, giggle; it had become more of a mission, something he pursued with great determination, something he never wanted to put an end to.

He sighed happily as a check mark turned green and he added yet another daily video to his channel, grinning as he stared at the small, red rectangle that portrayed, in a large, white font: 10,033. Never did he think so many people would find him, _him_ , interesting.

He was John Watson, seventeen-year-old rugby captain attending Baker Secondary School; below average height, average weight, blue eyes, blonde hair, a mostly B student with dreams of becoming a doctor, and a fan of Bond films - entirely and utterly unexceptional. Yet, _somehow_ , 10,033 people didn't think so.

With a fond smile, he moved the little arrow on the screen with his mouse to the search bar, pecking the keyboard in his usual manner and typing, ' _theballetbee._ '

Now, _this_ guy was interesting. Violin and ballet fanatic, talented at both, and utterly, frustratingly, anonymous. Yet, only 4,900 subscribers.  
It bewildered John. One of these days he was going to give the unnamed virtuoso a shoutout.

John bit his lip in concentration and scrolled through the Youtuber's playlist, humming and smiling softly as he chose his very favorite cover by the mysterious violinist, one he'd played himself and, in turn, videoed his very own dance performance to.

John clicked it and watched as the screen remained black but for a few white words that fluttered across the screen:

 

_'Who Wants to Live Forever: Queen (Instrumental) by theballetbee_

 

John sighed as he watched the video transition into shades of beige and soft grey, the man, bare chested, dancing across the wood coated studio clad in black tights and pink ballet shoes, his face utterly unreadable, blurred out purposefully with the right amount of skill applied to his editing. John narrowed his eyes, studying the being carefully, watching the stretch of his muscles, the ripple of them beneath the black material. He was a complete stranger with no identifiable qualities apart from a rather decent sized bee tattoo, all realistic and detailed, spanning across the lower half of his back.

John hummed softly and shook his head, sighing and pushing aside his anxiousness and need to discover who this person was and where he came from. The boy's bio on his channel's home page gave nothing away. John had read it time and time again, eyes roving down every word and always trying to make something out of nothing.

He knew the dancer lived in the same general area of the UK as John did, which came as quite a delight, but merely served to boost John's further curiosity. He wasn't at the point of checking every ballet studio across central London yet, but he was close - and for that, he reprimanded himself. The boy must have chosen to go into the world of YouTube anonymously and John should respect that.

So why did he find it so hard to?

John shook his head at himself and huffed, turning up the volume of the video and sighing, grabbing his backpack and pulling out his math homework, scribbling nonsense the best he could into the answer blanks of questions, all the while swaying to the soft melody of a carefully practiced violin and spotting the blur of black and pink in his peripheral vision, dancing with grace across his computer screen.

 

* * *

 

The curly haired boy lugged his belongings into the studio, glaring forwards while he walked past the dozens of ballerinas eyeing him suspiciously as they left their afternoon class. He rolled his eyes and pushed past them and into the slowly emptying ballet studio, slipping off his tennis shoes - old and tattered blue converse - dropping his duffle bag and beginning to stretch, extending his arms upwards and downwards and spreading his legs in a straddle like position, sitting gracefully onto the wooden floor. He leaned over his thighs, grabbed his toes and pulled them towards himself, huffing out a breath as the movements pulled at his muscles, the sensation both relieving and painful.

"Sherlock!"

He lifted his head and met the approaching eyes of a small, rather petite elderly lady, dressed elegant and classy, blending in with the atmospheric nature of the studio.

"Ms. Hudson," Sherlock smiled tiredly, humming and standing once more, stepping forward as the woman advanced on him, arms extended fondly as she reached out to pull Sherlock into a hug.

"Back again I see," She chuckled, drawing back to look him in the eyes, her warm smile gracing the soft, round curves of her kind expression, "I don't see why you won't just join my class."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly, eager to avoid that particular subject and scoffed, choosing to roll his eyes instead and step away from her, turning towards his bag and pulling out his ballet slippers, "Dull."

The old woman laughed and shook her head, tapping him lightly on the shoulder and sauntering daintily towards the studio exit, "You always say that."

Sherlock chuckled and smirked a little at her, arching a brow knowingly and gesturing sluggishly with his hands, "Then it must be true."

Ms. Hudson snorted and sighed joyfully, reaching for the exit and turning back to, most likely, sneak in another jab at Sherlock's clear distaste for other normal human beings but was instead interrupted by the sharp ding of his mobile. Sherlock unzipped his duffle bag and pulled out the black device, pressing his finger to the screen and biting his lip as a rush of overwhelming fondness consumed him.

 

_watsonmyface uploaded: Math Class can Kiss my Ass_

 

Sherlock snorted softly to himself and shook his head, smiling at the video thumbnail of a warm, tan face sticking his tongue out in utter exhaustion, mathematical symbols of all shapes and sizes surrounding him.

"Your boy again?" Ms. Hudson's voice jolted him out of his mindless gawking and he turned to quickly stare up at her from where he was kneeling beside his bag, blushing pink under her scrutiny. She caught up on his shameful gaze and snickered quietly, shrugging her shoulders and turning to open the exit door, "Stop watching him through a screen when you can just see him in person."

And with a wink, she disappeared out of the studio.

In person? _No_.

No, Sherlock would stutter and cower and hunch and blubber some stupid excuse about having laundry to do and would disappear in an instant, sprinting far from John Watson's view and into a dark abyss of which he'd never resurface from.  
Or worse: he'd say something he'd later regret, something cold and brutal and rude and deductive and John Watson would never look at him again apart from the occasional glare.

Not that he looks at him now.

Actually, Sherlock's pretty sure John Watson isn't aware of his existence.

But that's okay. Sherlock has a new video everyday to look forward to.

Sherlock glanced down at his phone, swallowing and eyeing the thumbnail once more, admiring John's soft, rather adorable expression, and then shook his head, tucking his mobile back into his duffle bag and sighing.

He'd watch it later.

He pushed the phone aside and grabbed out his dainty tripod and rather cheap, old digital camera, switching it to its proper video feature and huffing as he hooked it to the stand, screwing it tight to the top. He could always ask Mycroft for the money to get a proper, functioning camcorder but that meant emailing his brother and emailing his brother meant a lecture and he did not have the time nor the patience for such a thing. So, he'd make do.

Besides, Mycroft spent enough money on making sure his alcoholic uncle didn't tarnish the family name.

Rolling his eyes at his inner turmoil, he got to his feet, reaching for the hem of his baggy maroon sweater and lifting it up over his head, standing bare chested in the empty ballet studio, mirrors serving as his walls while he slowly began lacing up his slippers. Once he finished, he simply sat there, unmoving on the wood floor, blankly staring at his reflection - his floppy mop of dark brown curls, his sharp cheekbones and his thin shoulders, his angular collarbone and jutting hipbones - before dropping his eyes back down to his duffle bag and thinking.

It was _only_ fifteen minutes long. He'd just shorten his performance today. No big deal. Ms. Hudson didn't need the room back for another hour yet. He could just watch it and then get right to work on his own video.

Yes.

Sherlock huffed and inwardly swore at his impulsiveness, reaching back into his duffle and pulling out his phone, scooting up with his back against the mirror and hunching over his knees, propping the video up and watching intently as it began to play.

_"What's going on everybody, my name is John Watson and this is what's on my face."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's Dance:  
> https://youtu.be/7an065mRJAg


	2. Off Limits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I," Sherlock cleared his throat, and turned, facing John but still watching the locker room tiles, "I like your videos."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Readers! So sorry for the wait on this one. I'm going to get better at updating, pinky promise.  
> I am also sorry this is so short! I wanted to make it longer but I wasn't sure when I'd be able to finish it, so I was just eager to get it out to you all. :) thanks for reading and thanks for all the wonderful comments!  
> Please leave me some love!

"I laughed my arse off mate," Mike chuckled, slapping John on the back, and beaming brightly at him as he strode across the small space, turning to hunch over his shoes.

John smiled and nodded, looking down and sighing a little as he glared internally at his rugby gear laid out before him on one of the wooden seats lining the locker room. "Thanks Mike," He huffed and shrugged slightly, "It's just shit I'm not going to be able to upload as much," John shoved his foot into one of his cleats and began lacing up the strings attached, "what with Rugby season starting up again."

His best mate let out a hearty laugh and shook his head, beaming warmly and rolling his eyes just slightly at John's sour expression, "Lad, your fans will understand."

John chuckled breathlessly at the term because good god, he did have fans didn't he? Actual fans who actually loved and followed and supported him.  
"I guess," He responded, slipping his jumper off and reaching for his skin tight, workout tank, "I just don't wanna let anyone down, you know?"

With a sigh, he pulled on the shirt and turned fully to Mike, who had finally pulled his shoes on and was currently jumping up and down in place, stretching both arms, swinging them forwards and backwards, and exhaling deeply.

"John," He breathed and halted his small warm up, "You won't, mate."

John forced a small smile and sighed, nodding in finality and packing up his bag, forcing his school clothes in with his books, and turning to shove it all into his blue locker, only to jolt forwards as the loud click of the door opening and several footsteps, sounding hurried and impatient, emanated garishly around the near vacant locker room.

The rugby captain turned to witness a lanky, thin being sauntering quickly through the door, long legs striding outwards in front of him as he hugged a duffle bag to his chest. The dark haired boy glanced up from the mobile phone in his hand and froze, eyes widening as he came face to face with John, what looked like silver meeting ocean blue.

John jerked back lightly in surprise and swallowed thickly, his body fluttering at the sight of the boy in front of him. All sharp edges and angular curves, high cheekbones and a perfectly sculpted visage, eyes like galaxies and seas combined, lips parted to perfection and - John really needed to stop.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. He'd heard of the kid - oh yes, he'd heard of him; he'd heard about how he could make a fool of someone in three seconds, expose their darkest secrets, point out every flaw that ever came to be throughout the whole of their depressingly short life. But seen him? Hardly. The boy was like a ghost - one minute he was floating past you in the hallway and the next he was gone, gone as though he'd simply vanished through one of the corridor walls. This, right here, was a rare moment in John Watson's life.

"Oh, I -" He began and John arched a brow, admiring the deep nature of his baritone, rumbling thickly with every syllable, "I didn't know anyone was -" The boy paused, swallowed, glanced down at his hands, one fiddling with a corner of his phone case, and shook his head, turning around swiftly, obviously in pursuit of the exit.

"No, no," John smiled a friendly smile, and stepped forward, shrugging and grabbing his water bottle and gear, "We were just leaving."

Sherlock blinked at him, his eyes narrowing as though he were assessing the situation, and then nodded, heaving his duffle bag up further and hiding his face shyly, seemingly suddenly fixated on a specific spot on the floor.

John smiled softly to himself and gestured to Mike with a flick of his head toward the exit, sauntering lightly over to and passed the shy boy, curls falling atop his forehead and the back of his pale neck as he stared blankly at the ground, chewing on his bottom lip.

John lugged his rugby bag further over his shoulder and reached for the handle of the door, only to freeze in his steps as that deep voice sounded again, low and small and quiet.

"I," Sherlock cleared his throat, and turned, facing John but still watching the locker room tiles, "I like your videos."

Both of John's eyebrows rose sky high, blinking in surprise at the dark haired being, standing timidly in John's midst, looking so very nervous, worriedly fidgeting as he mumbled his admission to John.

The ashy blonde chuckled aloud, beaming brightly at the thin figure a little in front of him, blushing slightly at the compliment and bobbing his head gratefully. "Thank you, that's," He paused, scoffing softly and joyfully, "actually really amazing to hear."

Sherlock nodded once, swallowed, looked away and then turned around, striding off with the long length of his spindly legs and heading around the corner of the locker room and towards the showers.

John bit his lip, grinned and then grabbed the door handle, walking out into the loud cacophony of sounds resounding within the walls of the school gymnasium and smiling to himself.

"That was weird." Mike snorted, catching up to him and walking beside his team captain as they headed out the two doors that served as the entrance to the gym, turning and sauntering in the direction of the large, green field where a few of their team members already sat, stretching.

John glanced at him, eyes narrowed, "What? Why?"

Mike scoffed, and arched a brow, "The school freak just told you he watches your videos."

John scowled down at his feet, choosing to watch their upward motion as he walked rather than the boy next to him, "He doesn't seem like a freak to me."

Mike huffed and shook his head, "That's because he hasn't divulged all of your most sacred secrets yet."

"Okay, so he's smart; that doesn't make him a freak."

Mike eyed John suspiciously but shrugged it off, humming to himself and sighing, "Maybe not, but it does make him an arsehole."

John flinched at the insult and sped up, marching a little faster towards his goal, finally reaching the grass and tossing his stuff to the side of the rugby goal, choosing to simply ignore Mike Stamford for the rest of practice.

* * *

 

Sherlock was both irritated and surprised with himself. Irritated because bloody hell he'd made a complete fool of himself in front of John Watson, the John Watson. And surprised because he'd never thought he would even be able to manage an entire sentence towards the boy without hyperventilating.

And John was nice to him. Actually nice. Friendly, polite.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his inner thoughts and stepped out of the locker room shower, grabbing his towel and wrapping it around his nimble form. Who was he kidding? That was just who John Watson was, how he was raised, just another reason why he was number one on nearly every girl's _'date list'_.

Some guys too, most likely. Though, John had never expressed any interest in that specific gender.

 _Off limits_ , _Holmes_ , he growled to himself. _Completely and utterly off limits, one big bucket of no-no._

Sherlock shook his head, exasperated with himself and turned to the mirrors, staring at his wet curls and sharp expression. John would never go for someone like him anyway. Too exotic. Too unusual. Too freakish. He sighed and reached into his bag for his change of clothes, yanking out his plain, black sweatpants and baggy white v-neck. He was only going home. No need to dress for any occasions.

He ran slender fingers through his hair and shook out some of the wetness, water droplets flying this way and that as he bent down, tucking his previous clothes, a boring old jumper and skinny jeans, away and grabbing his duffle, hoisting it carefully over his shoulder. He snatched up his phone and tapped the screen.

No messages.

Why would there be? He rolled his eyes at himself and unlocked the device, flipping through his few apps before finding YouTube and hitting it lightly, watching as his channel popped up and the red circle beside the notifications symbol alerted him of several new comments, subscriptions and likes. He smiled softly to himself with inner pride, biting his lip and sighing happily at the new number.

4,910.

Ten new people who enjoyed his artistry. His latest composition and routine had gotten quite a bit of attention and appreciation, and it made his heart swell to know his hard work was paying off, and, better yet, being admired. With a touch of newfound joy, he slipped his phone into his back pocket and readjusted his duffle bag before heading towards the locker room exit.


	3. Rarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no room for uniqueness, no room for difference or specialty. And that's why Sherlock was such an outcast. A cruel, cruel thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small Trigger Warning (mentioned in the tags): indication of abuse. 
> 
> So here it is!  
> Any comments and/or critiques are always welcome and wanted.  
> I really do hope you like the chapter. 
> 
> I'm so very excited for this story to grow and delve deeper into the plot.  
> I hope you keep with me!

When John got home that Monday evening, freshly showered, muscles aching, body exasperated beyond belief, he went straight to his room, all navy walls and posters upon posters of his favorite TV shows and movies, and fell onto his small, single bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly and letting out a frustrated sigh. He slipped a hand into his back pocket and yanked out his phone from beneath him, quickly opening up his YouTube subscriptions and sliding the circular images over until he found the one he wanted: the single image of a bee, all scientific and tauntingly anonymous.

He sighed and went to the YouTuber’s playlist, tapping _“Compositions Only”_ and hitting shuffle. He reached for his headphones, lain clumsily on the edge of his bedside table, tangled and knotted, and quickly plugged them in. The soft, melancholy quivering of a violin sounded, warming his ears, and he instantly relaxed, letting out a deep much needed breath of relief and humming along quietly.

The boy, of whom went by the name of _theballetbee_ , had uploaded recently; yesterday in fact, the night after John’s own video hit the web, successfully as well.

He had listened to it today in French class, and watched it under the discretion of his desk, and fallen utterly, and completely, in love.   
This man: this anonymous, beautiful, talented man would be the absolute death of him. 

He shut his eyes, imagining the lean, pale body twirling about with such poise, such grace. He pictured the dark mass of blurred hair atop the boy's head and the unreadable face. He thought of the bee spread out across his back and the effortless way he jumped to his tippy-toes mid-dance. He conjured up all this and more, his mind reeling with shameless imaginings of a mystery boy pulling him to his feet and dancing for him, the pale figure pulling a bent bow across the strings of his violin and serenading him whilst he watched with utmost awe.

A sharp jab to his stomach sent his eyes flying open and his entire body flinging upwards in shock. He came face to face with the amused expression of his older sister, her caramel brown curls thrown up into a messy bun and her entire figure clad in her green work uniform. John sighed, mostly to get his heartbeat back to a normal rhythm, and took out the headphones from his ears, glaring at his sibling for interrupting and letting out a sharp huff, "You scared the shit out of me."

Harriet chuckled, her pale pink lipstick cracking a little and her black eyeliner crinkling as she smirked down at him, shaking her head fondly. "Listening to your boyfriend again?" She quipped, her eyes narrowed suspiciously and the ends of her lips curving upward in amusement.

"Christ, Harry," John blushed, running a hand through his hair and tossing his phone to the side, watching as it hit the far end of his mattress with a thump, "Shut up, will you? I don't even know who he _is_."

Harry sighed and rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and jutting out a hip, "Better start figuring that out then," She winked, leaning against his bed post, "so you can ask him on a date and all."

John tossed a pillow at her, but she expertly maneuvered out of the way.

"I'm not _gay_."

Harry snorted, "So simple-minded."

John arched a brow in confusion, "What?"

"Gay and straight aren't the only two sexualities, John Hamish Watson," She smirked, winking at him and glancing at his phone as if to further exaggerate her point.

John blinked at her, and then scowled, "I'm not a bloody idiot," He snapped, "What do you want anyway?"

She scoffed, "Debatable," but before John could defend himself, she continued, "Mum made an early dinner. She's working late again, and I've got the graveyard shift tonight. You gonna be okay?"

John laughed gently, swinging his legs off the bed and swaying towards his computer, booting it up as he lifted the screen and nodding quickly, "Yeah, 'course. I'll just do homework."

Harry nodded and smiled sneakily, snickering a little to herself as she turned to the door, pulling it open and talking a step out before glancing over her shoulder, "Who am I kiddin? You've got your boyfriend to watch."

John turned and glared at her as he finished pulling his science notebook out of his school bag, watching as she shrugged innocently at him. He snorted fondly and shooed her away with a small flick of his hand, "Go on. Don't you have a job to get to?"

Harriet giggled to herself, high-pitched squeaks that always reminded John of a dog's toy, and closed the door behind her, but not before yelling teasingly out, loud and clear, "Behave yourselves!"

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sighed to himself as he crept slowly into the rather large, but almost decrepit, house, closing the rather tall, intimidating front door behind him and sliding his shoes off. He tiptoed across the white, cold tile and headed for the winding staircase eager to get to his room and lock himself away but only managing a few steps before a slurred voice called for him from the living room couch.

He inhaled sharply and shut his eyes, shaking his head at his own faulty discretion and turned around, taking the corner cautiously and swallowing thickly as his uncle came into view, sprawled out on the grey couch in a half buttoned dress shirt and unzipped black trousers.

"Sherl," He scoffed, trying his best to sit up without spilling the expensive scotch in his hand, "You're back late."

Sherlock dropped his eyes to his black sock clad feet, trying his best to ignore his uncle's oncoming scowl.

Siger was right. He was late. But that's what happens when you're eager to film a new video in the school's ballet studio and the walk home takes thirty minutes.  
But he wouldn't dare say a word of that to the face of the man in front of him.

"Yes. It was imperative that I study," He lied subtly, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck nervously, risking a glance up at his uncle, "what with tests coming up and all. I met up with a friend in the library."

Siger let out a loud laugh at that, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock and arching a degrading brown brow, " _Friend?_ You don't have any _friends_." He heaved and grunted until he was on his feet, lifting his hand, of which was grasping tight to his drink, and pointing it accusingly at Sherlock, the ice sloshing about here and there, noisily.

Sherlock swallowed.

He wasn’t wrong. 

"You lyin' to me, Sherly?" He snapped, icy blue eyes wide with rage as he glared down at his nephew, lifting his glass and taking a long drawn out sip until every last drop was devoured.

Sherlock shook his head and gulped, running a hand through his haphazard curls and looking away, gesturing weakly to the staircase, "No, but I do have homework so if you don't mind -"

"You always think you're so clever don't you, boy," His uncle sneered, smirking a rather malicious smirk and swaying unsteadily over to the small liquor cabinet on display in the bland, brightly colored living room, "Always thinking you can slip one right over my head, ay?" He growled, grabbing out a glass jug of his favorite scotch and helping himself to a refill.

Sherlock winced and looked down at his feet once more. His father's favorite as well. Siger and he had shared a number of things - hobbies, habits, taste in women. They had been close. And then Sherlock's father had died and their special evenings of sitting beside the fire, drinking half a glass had turned into Siger sitting alone, downing the entire bottle.

 "No, I just," Sherlock cleared his throat, and huffed, shrugging his shoulders and glancing timidly up at the man pouring his scotch, "I just _really_ need to finish my homework." 

Siger glanced over his shoulder at him, took a hearty sip of his drink and hummed, a malicious smirk spreading wide across his face as he began walking towards Sherlock, of whom stood frozen still, swallowing and watching his socked feet with renewed interest.

" _Fine_ ," His uncle spat, a menacing grin altering the lines of his fairly wrinkled expression, before he extended his arm outward, tipping his cup instantly upside down, ice and expensive scotch toppling to the floor with a clink and a splash, "But clean this up first."

Sherlock glared at the man in front of him.

He hated Siger Holmes. He hated him with a burning passion and yet he found himself nodding to his commands, affirming his orders. The punishment would be far worse if he didn't anyways.

Siger Holmes was the Holmes relative gone bad. He was the man in the family that had been far too influenced by grief and loss, and turned to alcohol to cope. Most of Sherlock's distant relatives sympathized for him. _The poor dear lost his brother, the poor lad lost his only sibling, his best friend, his true mate._

Sherlock didn't.

Sherlock had lost his father.

And he had, and _was_ , coping just fine.

 

* * *

 

When John pulled his mother's tattered old Toyota into the student parking lot, he caught sight of a lone figure walking slowly along the pavement, somewhat dragging his feet as he sucked on the end of a cigarette.

Sherlock.

Yet again, another rarity.

All long legs clad in black skinny jeans, and thin torso covered in a baggy grey sweatshirt. He smiled softly, admiring the bounce of the brown curls and the sharpness of those unreadable eyes as they focused on the school, seemingly filling to the very top with revulsion and dislike.

John had to agree with the detest in Sherlock's expression. Baker was an interesting school. It was still burdened by cliché - the nerds, the geeks, the punks, the jocks. You chose your bunch and you stuck to them. There was no jumping about or testing the waters. John despised it, well and truly.

There was no room for uniqueness, no room for difference or specialty. And that's why Sherlock was such an outcast. A cruel, cruel thing.

John scoffed and shook his head, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat, yanking it over his shoulder and shutting the door behind him as he stepped out of the car. He clicked lock and took a deep breath, watching as Sherlock stopped outside the school gates, just slightly hidden from view, to finish his cigarette, nimble fingers shaking slightly from the bitter cold of morning. 

With courage he wasn't aware he had, John sauntered over, putting on a small smile and making his way up and over to the side of the tall brunette, "I didn't know you smoked."

The curly-haired genius jolted in place, nearly dropping his cigarette as he whirled around to face John, eyes wide as they glanced once over the entirety of John's body and then moved back up to his line of sight, frozen there, brows above narrowed in confusion, and partial disbelief.

"Sorry," John chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly, "Didn't mean to scare you."

Sherlock blinked, swallowed and then seemed to get a hold of himself, wrapping his arms around his torso shyly and shrugging a shoulder, "You didn't _scare_ me." The brunette cleared his throat, as if trying to cover up the hoarseness of his deep tone, and lifted the cigarette timidly back up to those plush, pink lips, "I was just a little surprised."

John let out a soft, warm-hearted chuckle, adjusting his hold on the strap of his red backpack and sticking his other hand in his jeans' pocket, "Some might say that's almost the same thing."

Sherlock took a drag and then dropped the cigarette to the floor, stomping on it with the heel of his toe before glancing quickly up at John, expression guarded but almost fond, "They'd be idiots."

John let out one hearty laugh before smiling widely at Sherlock and shrugging the shoulder his school bag hung from, "Yeah, I guess so, huh?"

Right then and there, John saw the corner of Sherlock's lips lift up for a short moment in amusement before dropping once more as he fixed his attention to the floor, swallowing nervously and kicking a stray rock in utter silence. John watched him carefully for a moment, realizing he should probably say something, considering _he_ was the one who'd approached _him_ , but found he couldn't think of anything to say.

He'd never really spoken to Sherlock aside from a quick 'excuse me' in the halls or the interaction yesterday. He wasn't exactly sure how. Sherlock was so _remote_ , so _quiet_ , so _discrete_. John was afraid he might say something wrong and be forever despised by the genius' mind.

"Um," he began, grunting to clear the awkward bubble in his throat, and biting his lip a little nervously, "Look, I just wanted to say thanks, you know? For the compliment. Yesterday." He smiled wearily at Sherlock's downturned head and then watched, oddly fascinated, as it lifted in curiosity, those icy blue - silver, green, gold? - eyes dropping onto John's own and widening slightly.

"What do you mean?" That deep baritone asked and John instantly shrugged once more, feeling far more nervous now than before.

Since when did John _Watson_ get _nervous_?

"I just mean for the compliment," He responded softly, smiling a lopsided grin, "on my videos."

Sherlock blinked and then looked down once more, shaking his head and scoffing sharply, "It was simply the honest truth. I quite enjoy them."

John, much to his own embarrassment, found himself blushing, a bright, crimson red, and was genuinely glad Sherlock wasn’t currently looking at him with those scrutinizing eyes.

“ _Well_ ,” John laughed shyly, and chewed on his bottom lip, readjusting his backpack for what felt like the hundredth time and admiring the top of Sherlock’s curly head, “it means a lot, you know?”

Sherlock looked up again at that, eyes widening softly before narrowing, as though they were readily observing John for any sign of insincerity. The brown haired boy swallowed, opened his mouth, furrowed his brows, closed his mouth, and then opened it again, only to mumble out, “Even from me?”

John blinked in confusion and scoffed softly, “’ _Course_.”

The boy in front of him quickly cleared his throat and avoided John’s eyes, grabbing the strap of his bag and glancing towards the school, taking a step towards it and nervously shifting his attention indirectly at John. “I,” He murmured thickly, in that deep baritone, “I should head to class.”

John sighed inwardly, part of him itching to grab Sherlock’s arm and ask him to stay and chat, or sit with him at lunch, or next to him in their shared English class. But instead, he merely nodded, shot the boy a short, “ _See ya,_ ” and a smile, and watched as the lean figure sauntered away.


	4. Underneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oi,” John chuckled, smiling, white teeth and all, “I picked up your pen for you. Don’t make me regret it.”
> 
> With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock let out a huff, “Oh, right. Yes. Good on you. I guess chivalry really isn’t dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Notice: TW for homophobic language.
> 
> Hello! Gosh, sorry for the wait on this thing.  
> I was visiting my girlfriend and taking care of a bunch of personal crap.
> 
> IMPORTANT!*  
> I have made a Twitter called: reachmyeyes. Here you can see updates and info on when the next chapters will be coming out and even submit any sort of fanart if you like! Give me a follow to keep up to date with RME!
> 
> I do hope you like it, and if so please leave a comment of sorts? :)  
> They really help in kicking my ass to get the next chapters out, ha!

“ _What’s going on everybody_ , my name is John Watson, and _this_ ,” He paused for effect, smirking directly at the camera, “is what’s on my face.”

With a soft laugh and a shake of his head, he swallowed thickly and began. “Update on my life? Well. Rugby is a pain in the arse, like always. Remember how in the early days of public schooling you were told,” He put on a fake, uppity accent, “not to run in the halls, not to touch other students, and, most importantly, not to use foul language?”

John scoffed and spun in his chair, lifting his hands up towards the ceiling and shrugging his shoulders, “Well, coaches? They don’t give two blinking fucks.”

With a rather dark grin, he pointed at the camera lens and arched a brow, “You know what they call our rugby coach behind his back?”

John let out a snort, “Coach the _Roach_. Fitting, ay?” He leaned back and lifted his hands, “For those of you who don’t know ‘im, it’s pretty darn accurate. He smells bad, he give you this weird squinty-eyed face when you bugger something up, and,” John snapped for emphasis, “He scurries around like he owns a bloody teleportation device or something. The man has a fucking TARDIS, I’m telling you!”

The YouTuber barked a laugh and glared at the wall behind where his tripod and camera sat, “What I’m trying to say is that the man creeps up on you. You’re alone one minute, and then bam; you're getting yelled at by a short man with a caterpillar below his nose and bad breath.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sighed down at the phone in his hand, headphones tucked into his ears in an act to shoo any unwanted visitors away, and hooded sweatshirt wrapped around him for good measure. Sat far in the very back of the cafeteria, at a round corner table, Sherlock smiled down at his notebook, tapping at the list he’d scribbled out, mindlessly atop the clean, white paper. He’d titled one side of the page, ‘Songs I Must Learn,’ and, with a dividing line between the very middle of the composition book, labeled the other side, ‘Songs I Must Dance to.’

It was how he stayed organized – listing and graphing and charting and planning and sketching and devising all the next video ideas, all the notes for new songs, both musical and textual, all the different movements to perform across the shiny, wood floor of the school’s empty studio.

And he never let anyone in, never let anyone read it nor even sneak a glance.

There was a reason – well, several – of course, why he ran _theballetbee_ as an anonymous composer and dancer. Because people in reality, in the real world, outside of the virtual cyberspace that made up YouTube, or Twitter, or the Internet in general, despised him. He was not likeable and never had been. To everyone who knew him, he was an egotistic, self-centered, arrogantly anti-social weirdo.

He was fine with that.

To those who subscribed to his channel – to them? To them, he was the mysterious, graceful, musically talented stranger – he was an enigma, a puzzle never to be solved, a mask never to be removed. And he liked it that way – so that’s the way it would stay.

No one would ever know. _No_ one.

He grabbed for his phone, tapping next on the screen and listening as his phone shuffled the online playlist and began a new melody, one he’d never heard before. It was French; that much was clear by the obvious accordion calling out alongside a soothing and rather melancholy piano. He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the screen. ‘Ballet of the Little Café,’ it read, and ‘Brian Crain,’ in text beneath it. Oh _yes_. He’d definitely be dancing to this.

He reached for his pen, uncapping it and quickly scribbling the song’s name into the appropriate column, smiling softly to himself, rather proud to have found such an invigoratingly new sound. It was because of this, and the fact that his phone’s volume was turned to max, that he didn’t hear the name calling out for him, only finally realizing and looking up unnaturally quick when the person who was in need of his attention tapped lightly on his shoulder.

When he spotted blue eyes and golden hair, he slammed his notebook shut, accidentally dropped his black pen, and scrambled for his phone, shoving it into his pocket and swallowing thickly as he yanked out his headphones, flailing idiotically. A sharp, joyful laugh, that Sherlock frankly found himself craving to hear more of, emanated out of the lips – those beautiful lips – of the rugby captain before him, and Sherlock looked up, embarrassment painting his cheeks a bright pink.

John bent down slightly, expertly holding his lunch in one hand, and grabbed Sherlock’s pen, holding it out for the curly-haired boy with a charming smile, of whom slowly took it, shyly swallowing and shoving it into the black backpack by his feet.

“Thank you,” Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped his eyes down to the closed notebook in his pale, slender fingers.

Suddenly, he was glad he’d left the title area blank.

“Yeah, no problem,” John grinned politely, his eyes roaming over Sherlock’s awkward sitting position, his hooded sweatshirt, dirty Converse and skinny jeans, the way he was nibbling nervously on his bottom lip and fiddling with the corner of a tattered, rather worn down notebook.

When the blonde continued to stare and remain silent, Sherlock forced himself to look back up at the boy, his eyes narrowing in question, putting on his trusty _‘you mean nothing to me’_ mask as he watched John smile that stupidly happy smile, “Yes?”

The rugby captain’s ocean blue eyes widened rather rapidly and he was instantly coughing and fumbling nervously and one-handedly with his backpack straps, “Oh, I, uh,” He swallowed and moved to the other side of the corner table, sitting directly in front of Sherlock, his lunch tray clattering against its surface as he seemingly collected himself, confidence right back in those ever-perfect features, “How are you?”

Sherlock blinked, “I’m sorry?”

John bit his lip, glanced down, swallowed, and then shrugged a shoulder, “How are you?”

With a scoff of disbelief, Sherlock shook his head and found himself glaring at the blonde boy, his brows drawn forwards in utter confusion, “You came all the way over here, from your usual table, just to ask how I am?”

John narrowed his eyes, looked up, and then nodded, smiling a suddenly very wide smile and chuckling softly, “Yeah, pretty much.”

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that.

So he simply frowned, slipped his hands into his sweatshirt pockets and stared narrowly at John, chewing on his bottom lip a little before shaking his head, “And they say _I’m_ the freak.”

John’s brow furrowed, his smile dropping, and Sherlock panicked slightly, only slightly, concerned he’d said something wrong.

“Who’s ‘ _they’_?”

Sherlock shrugged a single shoulder, his hands still pocketed, “Everyone.” He signified his point by glancing around the cafeteria, observing the other students chucking food at one another, laughing through their obnoxious chewing, jabbing fingers at their friends, lifting milk cartons haphazardly into the air – an awful bunch really. There should be no weight to their opinions. They were all idiots. So why did it bother Sherlock so much? Why did it _hurt_?

“Well, people talk to amuse themselves,” John began, jolting Sherlock from his thoughts, “and for some reason, talking complete shite about a person is funny.”

Sherlock swallowed, watching John with a cautious, guarded expression, unsure whether his kindness was a trait, or a trick, “Unless it’s merely true.”

Those blue eyes flickered to meet Sherlock’s own and he was instantly frozen in place, their deep, navy shine so entirely intense, Sherlock nearly forgot to inhale.

“Doubt it,” John smirked, before grabbing his milk carton, folding it open, lifting it to his lips and taking a sip. Sherlock watched as his throat bobbed and quickly glanced away, mentally slapping himself from his obvious gazing and glaring down at his scruffy notebook.

“So, what were you up to?” John asked suddenly, and Sherlock glanced up to see that he had moved on to picking at the small chicken sandwich atop his tray.

Sherlock arched a brow, “You mean, before you rudely interrupted me?”

“Oi,” John chuckled, smiling, white teeth and all, “I picked up your pen for you. Don’t make me regret it.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock let out a huff, “Oh, right. Yes. Good on you. I guess chivalry really _isn’t_ dead.”

To his utter surprise, John let out a sharp giggle, grinning across the table at Sherlock, and looking – and sounding, mind – positively _adorable_. Sherlock blushed. Had he just made _John Watson_ _giggle_?

“I don’t get an answer then?” John smiled, itching the back of his neck and then leaning forward to take a rather small bite of his school lunch.

Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat, “Nope.”

With another soft laugh, John nodded and shrugged a shoulder, “Fair enough.”

Smirking, Sherlock grabbed for his notebook and reached down, sliding it into his backpack behind his other things, and securing it safely from view. When he lifted himself back up, he met John’s eyes instantly – blue sapphires watching him curiously, narrowing in observant amusement, the corner of John’s lips quirked up just slightly.

Unsettled with being on the spot, Sherlock gulped and glanced around nervously before facing John head-on once more, “Coach the _Roach_ , then.”

John’s expression instantly lit up and he threw his head back, practically cackling from hilarity, an even wider grin than the one before now present on his face.

“You watched it?”

“Obviously.”

“Did you like it?”

Sherlock looked away, observing the crowds of teenagers and lifting a shoulder carelessly, “It was satisfactory.”

John scoffed, but the smile remained, “Gee, thanks.”

Sherlock inwardly scolded himself – quite eager not to scare the boy away thank you very much – before turning back to John and lifting a curious brow, “Do you really call him that?”

John made to answer him, mouth open as he beamed at Sherlock, but his voice was replaced with another – one far harsher, far more unpleasant.

“ _Watson_ ,” Sebastian Wilkes snapped, stepping up to Sherlock’s designated corner table – tucked away from the entirety of the student population, purposely chosen for such a reason – and placing his bulky, large hands on its surface, looming over Sherlock.

Suddenly, the curly-haired boy felt very, very small.

“What you doin’ sittin’ with _Holmes_?” He scoffed, raising one thick, black eyebrow at John, who sat discretely glaring his way, before running a hand over his slicked-back, black hair.

“Just chatting,” John practically growled, biting the inside of his cheek as Sebastian turned to give Sherlock an entirely bitter once-over.

Sherlock simply stared at the table, one hand out of his pocket now and on the handle of his old backpack, more than ready to bolt.

“What, need a new subject for one of your videos?” Sebastian joked, smirking and barking out a revoltingly loud guffaw as he leered down at Sherlock’s curly head, “You finding out about all his freaky faggot kinks?”

Within an instant, eager to keep from hearing John’s response, whatever it may be, Sherlock jumped to his feet, barely meeting John’s eyes as he turned away from the table, swallowing and clearing his throat, keeping his head downcast, “Enjoy the rest of your lunch, John.”

And with that, he was walking as quickly as he could out of the cafeteria, bursting through the doors and reaching into his sweatshirt pocket, shoving his headphones back into his ears and trying desperately to forget about his interaction with one _John Watson_.

 

* * *

 

 

John stormed across the field; irritation and anger from earlier events still making his ears ring, still running his temperature high, still making his palms sweat with rage. He had no right. No _right_.

The blonde tugged at the loose material of his jersey, a scowl gracing his usually soft features as he kicked at the soppy green grass below his feet, lifting his head to watch as the rest of the team slowly made their way towards the middle of the field for the day’s practice.

“John,” He heard Mike call out from behind him, the stubby teen jogging up to his side and placing a warm hand on his shoulder, “Alright, mate?”

John shrugged it off and shook his head, clearing his throat and allowing his old friend a short, glaring glance, before sighing and running a hand through his damp hair. “Let’s just get this practice over with, yeah?”

With a nod of affirmation, Mike trailed beside him as they made their way toward the stretching group of rugby players, each of them laughing and teasing and joking and snickering to themselves. It just fueled John’s already brewing anger.

He stomped over and plopped onto the grass, beginning his usual warm up, straightening out one leg and grabbing hold of his shoe, guiding the point of his toe until he felt the pull beneath and along the bottom of his calves – all the while, keeping his eyes trained on one person in particular. He watched as Sebastian Wilkes punched another teammate playfully in the arm, watched as he smirked darkly at another’s joke, watched as he ran spider-like fingers through his black hair.

And he did it all with a scowl firmly in place.

The high-pitched whirr of the coach’s whistle jogged him from his glaring, knocking all of the boys into action, leaping to their feet and beginning to spread out across the field as the Roach barked orders their way. John jogged to where he needed to be and gazed out at his teammates, suddenly loathing them all, suddenly wishing he were anywhere else but here. And, even as things were kicked into gear and the drill began, John continued to gaze with a look of resentment until, before he knew it, he had a face full of bad breath and fuzzy mustache.

“ _Watson_ ,” Coach spat, glaring directly at him, jabbing a finger upward accusingly, “Distracted, are we?”

John shrugged a shoulder and frowned angrily down at the ground, choosing to spare himself the smell of old garlic and morning coffee.

“Oi,” the man snapped again, two grimy fingers lifting to tap harshly at John’s shoulder, forcing him backwards slightly before he finally met the coach’s eyes, much to his own resent.

“I’m fine,” He murmured, sighing loudly and kicking at the muddy ground with his cleats.

“Sure about that?” Coach the Roach interrogated, arching a thick brow and leaning down further into John’s personal space, “You’re team captain, Watson. Get your shit together, yeah?”

And with that, the insect-like man was trudging away, wandering off to yell at a few other members and taking his ever-present whistle and clipboard with him.

John rolled his eyes, glancing around to see if any of the boy’s were paying him any attention, before his eyes settled on a distant figure, yet again lugging a rather large duffle bag beside him, his long, spindly legs carrying him forwards rather quickly in a direction he seemed quite set on. John swallowed, resisting the urge to run across the field and join him on his quest to wherever he was headed.

Something about Sherlock was alluring in the most mysterious of ways. He was clever and intriguing of course, but there was something untamable in those eyes, and John had noticed since the beginning – something that said, _“I belong to no one, and I listen to no one._ ” It was that – that thirst to be himself no matter the judgment or question – that kept John on his toes, observing Sherlock’s every move before he disappeared around the corner of the gym, hidden from view.

John sighed, turning back around in an attempt to regain his focus and take on whatever drills the coach had planned, only to be suddenly slammed into the ground, the forceful shove of a teammate’s shoulder knocking him to the floor, earning him a face full of dirt and mud beneath his nails. Within an instant, he was lifting his head in rapid question, eyes wide in shock before they narrowed in silent fury, finding himself staring up into the face of an amused Wilkes.

“Pay attention, _Watson_ ,” He scoffed, arching a brow and elevating his arms in a questioning shrug, “We’ve started a practice game, ya bloody dimwit.”

He flew to his feet and fixed Sebastian with the darkest, meanest, most hateful glare he could possibly muster before nodding and shoving Wilkes lightly to the side as he readjusted himself and brushed the dirt and grass from his kit. If he spent most of that practice “ _accidentally_ ” tackling Sebastian Wilkes to the ground, _several_ times, and pondering chatting with Sherlock again – _well_ – he wouldn’t admit it to anyone.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock fixed his camera to it’s tripod and let out a long, rather drawn-out sigh, shaking his head as he switched the device on and to recording mode. He’d be an idiot, of course – thinking that he could talk to another human being without there being repercussions. Fraternizing with another put himself in a vulnerable state. And John – captain of the rugby team, up in the popular scale, golden boy of Baker – was the worst person he could have possibly chosen.

With a soft growl, he reached for his shirt, lugging it slowly off and standing bare-chested in his black tights and pale pink ballet shoes. Stepping gracefully over to his duffle bag and pulling out his phone, he tapped in his pass code and brought up his music, scrolling through his playlists till he found the song he’d planned his next routine to. Smiling lightly to himself, he turned up the volume of ‘ _Underneath’,_ a melody he’d been meaning to dance to for ages now and leaned over to click the record button on the top of his camcorder.

 _Strip away the flesh and bone.  
_ He pointed his toes, hands flowing downwards like waves of a waterfall, guiding the entirety of the viewer’s eye with the curve of his slender pale back, the wings of a bee bending and weaving.

 _Look beyond the lies you've known._ _  
_ He dropped his foot flat and then pushed up, to the very top of his pink shoe, body nearly light as a feather, arms outstretched.

 _Everybody wants to talk about a freak._ _  
_ He danced without regret, without hesitation, knowing his face and hair and any defining features would be blurred from clear view.

 _No one wants to dig that deep._ _  
_ And in an instant, he dropped from his tiptoes and collapsed to the ground, spinning across the studio floor, chest heaving, body whirling, movements graceful and poised for both beauty and emphasis.

He closed his eyes and forgot; forgot about his stupid crush on John Watson, forgot about the words spat at him from the mouths of pathetic jocks, forgot about the weight and force of his uncle’s hand.

For the moment, flying across the wood floor, he just _was_.

_Let me take you underneath._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underneath - Adam Lambert


	5. Alteration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They would see, he would make them see, what a thoroughly equipped mind, and a simple alteration to song, could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I'm sorry!  
> I know this is short but I wanted to get a chapter out asap as I will be busy as all hell for the next two weeks.  
> Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy and please please leave a comment for me to read?  
> Much love to you all!
> 
> I am so touched and honored by the amount of attention this has gotten already and I am so very excited to finish this thing eventually. Much more is in store!
> 
> And please remember I have a Twitter: reachmyeyes where I post frequent updates.  
> I'd love for you to follow so you know when I'll be updating next!
> 
> Thank you! x

_Buzz._

_MH: Did you see it?_

John smiled down at his phone, shaking his head in amusement as he stealthily held the device between himself and his desk, hidden from his English teacher’s view. 

_JW: Course I saw it._

He waited. 

_Buzz._  

_MH: I might have cried. Just a little._

John held back a scoff, smirking a little at his friend’s response and sighing softly, turning away from the screen for a moment to stare blankly ahead.

 _Theballetbee_ ’s most recent video had been quite something. Hell, even John had gotten a little teary eyed – only a little, mind you. The stranger in the video had danced with such determination, his body focused; his movements gentle yet almost angry, sharp and soft all at once. John had been entranced by the routine, the words in the song, the beauty of the blurred man of whom had ballet down to perfection. He thought about the number of people who didn’t even know about him, of whom he was nonexistent to. John pitied them. He vowed to tell every single person he ever met about this anonymous “ _balletbee_ ,” and he would call doing so a public service.

 _Buzz_.

_MH: Okay, maybe a lot._

Molly had been the one to introduce him to the anonymous prodigy – in fact; she’d been the one who got him into YouTube in the first place. They’d been friends for ages, the two of them; starting out as next-door neighbors, attending the same schools, always staying in touch – to John, she was practically part of the family. Once they’d reached secondary school together, she’d turned to him, ordered him into buying a camera and stated, _“Don’t just tell me your stories. Tell the world.”_

And so he did, and he’ll never stop being grateful to her.

They told one another everything – well, mostly everything – and John found refuge in her more-than-willing-to-listen ears. They shared homework answers, favorite movies, shows, their songs of the week, and it was because of such that John was told all about _theballetbee_.

It was safe to say Molly was perhaps even more obsessed than he was. He didn’t blame her, of course.

He smiled to himself, grabbed for his phone and quickly typed out a reply.

_JW: I’m gonna shout him out next vid._

He bit his lip and leaned back in his chair. The dancer deserved it. If John could get just a few of his subscribers to check the lad out, he’d be happy. He’d wanted to for a while, to tell his fans – god, that still sounds weird – about one of his favorite artists, someone he listened to and kept up with on the daily, someone he was close to obsessing over, but he was never sure of when, or how, or frankly, what his watchers would think.

 _Buzz_.

_MH: Good on you. Wonder if he watches you?_

John paused and narrowed his eyes, humming inwardly to himself before biting his lip in thought.

That would be something. That would be something indeed.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock lugged his duffle bag beside him, dropping it down by his feet as he plummeted into one of the many desks lining his math class, the late bell only just ringing for his last lesson of the day. He dropped his arms onto the table and laid his head atop them, using his one wrist to hide, best he could, the gash along his eyebrow.

It’s what he deserved, he supposed. He should have never pointed out the hickey Sebastian Wilkes’s received from _not_ his girlfriend, or the fact that Philip Anderson still wets the bed sometimes due to a rather serious bladder issue, or that Carl Powers may or may not have herpes. He couldn’t help what he saw; his problem was that he had trouble keeping from voicing it.

He winced, as he pressed just a bit to hard, sighing and swallowing thickly, knowing one blow from Wilkes would certainly leave a bruise. He shouldn’t care so much about who saw – his uncle wouldn’t look twice, wouldn’t ask if he was okay, wouldn’t check to make sure it wasn’t too bad; he had no friends to show concern anyway; even the teachers hated him here, why would they show any sort of alarm?

No. He was alone, well and truly. _The way it should be_ , he thought.

With a sigh, he watched as his maths teacher spoke animatedly into his phone, sitting straight at his desk, tapping a pencil rapidly against his textbook, fully invested and seemingly unbothered by the full classroom awaiting his direction. Sherlock hummed to himself. Oh _good_ , more time to mope.

 

“What are you, _seventy_?”

 

Sherlock turned slightly in his seat to glance over at the back corner of the room where a number of boys had angled their desks just enough to divulge in a rather lively conversation, hands waving and jaws jiggling vigorously with the speed at which they spoke. Amongst them, Sebastian Moran, James Sholto, Mike Stamford, Gavin – _Graham? Geoff? Something with a G_ – and, Sherlock unconsciously _blushed_ , John Watson. The five of them sat chuckling at one another, John twiddling his mobile in his hands, and Sholto arching a brow at the rugby captain’s phone screen.

“Yeah, bit weird, mate,” James scoffed, punching John lightly in the shoulder before leaning back in the plastic blue chair of his desk.

“Right, shut up lads,” John snapped, half amused and half annoyed – or so he appeared to Sherlock – as he glared at his friends, a frown dawning on his features and creasing the soft skin between his brows, “None of you have even given him a listen.”

Lestrade lifted his head from his own phone, clearing his throat to add his own outlook on the situation, running a hand through his silver-dyed hair as he flicked his chin forward, “Oi, John has a point.”

The rugby captain nodded and huffed at the rest of the boys, relaxing back in his seat, the conversation quieting a little as John’s position seemed to declare it over.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned back around, laying his head down once more and shutting his eyes, eager to drown out the noise, ignore the chattering and obnoxious yelling sounding throughout the classroom, teenagers throwing rubbers at one another, crumpled paper, but, much to his own resentment, his brain seemed to focus in on one thing in particular.

The sound of John Watson’s voice – a voice that had sprung into action once more as he bickered with his friends. Soft and gentle, yet stern and strict, a true captain’s voice – not a tremor to be heard, not an inch of insecurity, merely pure, overwhelmingly warm confidence, a boy who was comfortable in his own skin.

Sherlock smiled a little, for the first time all day, as he listened to the bright sound of John’s laugh, joyous and light – Sherlock loved that laugh, that welcoming giggle that wholly enveloped you, that made you feel safe. It was a home. Sherlock was convinced there was a home in John’s laugh.

Sherlock was content to simply listen for the remainder of his class period, beginning to relax, shoulders losing tension, eyes lingering shut, mind at ease for once, until that mellow, soft, inviting voice spoke a name that instantly sent him in panic mode – a pure, horrifying, holy-fucking-shit kind of panic mode.

“ _Theballetbee_.” 

 

* * *

 

“What kind of name is that?” Sebastian Moran snapped, arching a brow in curiosity and staring down at the YouTube channel displayed on John’s mobile screen.

John swallowed thickly, annoyed by his friend’s denseness, and snatched his phone back, letting out a sigh and shaking his head, “A suitable one.”

“And he does what?” Mike Stamford asked, staring intently at John, rather wrapped up in the blonde’s story as he bit into a chocolate bar.

John watched as all his friends stared back at him, brows raised in both intrigue and confusion, each and every one of them looking entirely blank, entirely brainless. He let out a soft scoff and looked down, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair and turning his mobile over in his hands – he had known this was a bad idea from the start but he couldn’t _not_ explain himself when Moran had caught him watching one of the dancer’s routines while waiting for the bell to ring.

“Ballet and violin,” John replied, shrugging a shoulder and swallowing the knot in his throat, “and he composes.”

James Sholto let out a snicker and reached for his own phone, yanking it out and tapping the screen swiftly and with practiced ease, “Composes what?”

Rolling his eyes, John grunted out a sharp, “ _Music_.”

Sholto shot him a short, playful glare before placing his phone on the table, directly in view of the others as he scrolled through the one and only _theballetbee’s_ channel. John watched nervously, biting the inside of his cheek as all his friends practically piled over James and his mobile, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed curiously. It was quiet for a few moments before Sholto spoke up once more, scoffing rather loudly and glancing over at John with a sharp, leering smirk.

“ _Boring_ music, you mean,” He declared, pushing his phone closer to the others and directing his full attention to John.

John frowned, “Why, because it’s classical?”

“Is this what you do in your free time?” James interrogated in amusement, expression frighteningly teasing, “Watch some queer tiptoe around a studio, and play sad violin songs?”

John scowled, clenching and unclenching his fists beneath his desk as he fixed his friend with a rightful, well-deserved glare.

“ _Why_ ,” he bit out, reiterating the boy’s words, “is it _boring_?”

“The kind of music he plays on that ancient violin is the kind of music my granddad puts on for his afternoon naps,” Sholto scoffed, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back in his seat, “Boring.”

Moran took the tense, and rather short, moment of silence to chime in, shrugging a shoulder and leaning back in his seat, letting out a wide yawn as he shut his eyes and crossed his arms over his firm chest, “He could at least add a beat to some of them or some shit like that.”

John glanced at him, instantly glaring daggers, sending the boy into a state of reddened shame as he slouched further in his chair and acted as though he were going to take a conveniently timed catnap. When the rugby captain turned away from the brute and back to the other boy choosing to push his buttons, Sholto was shaking his head in amusement and running a pale hand through his bleach blonde hair.

“We’re not trying to piss you off purposely, mate,” James guffawed, grinning at John’s uptight position in his chair, shoulders raised, eyes fixated and narrowed, “but he’s just not our style, yeah?”

Greg Lestrade glanced over at John’s clenched jaw and cleared his throat, sliding Sholto’s mobile across the desk and back in front of the judgmental idiot of a human being. “I thought he was alright,” He added, shrugging one shoulder and swallowing thickly as both John and James turned their full attention towards him.

The tension’s hold on John’s expression instantly broke as a wide smile corrupted the anger in his features, teeth bared brightly as he nodded his head in pure gratitude for his friend. Greg was a good lad – he’d known him since his start at the school, gotten to know him better through rugby, and become even closer through simple self-expression. Greg didn’t judge, unlike practically everyone else at Baker.

Sholto scoffed and shook his head, rolling his eyes and looking towards the front of the room, “You plonkers need to upgrade.”

“I’m still not over the nutty name he goes by,” Moran murmured, half asleep in his chair.

John shut his eyes in pure agony. _Brainless oafs._

* * *

 

If Sherlock didn’t breathe anytime soon, he’d certainly pass out.

John Watson watches his videos. _His_ videos. His compositions, his dances, his covers. All of it.

John was a _fan_. John was a fan of _his_ work – John was a fan of _him_.

And bloody _hell_ was he a fan of _John_.

Sherlock jolted as a loud voice pierced through the veil of the corner table’s conversation, his maths teacher springing into action, the very shrillness of his tone cringe-worthy. The curly-haired brunette glanced around discretely as students began groaning and quieting, reaching in their bags for pencils and pens, papers and folders.

Sherlock merely sat still – glued to his place there, in his uncomfortable chair, his elbows digging into the wooden surface of his desk, his mind whirling with information he wasn’t sure he’d be able to contain for much longer.

Sherlock considered the entire scenario. John watched him, watched what he made, and seemed, believe it or not, rather, entirely, intrigued by him. In fact, John sounded impressed, proud, ridiculously so but legitimately, thoroughly bewildered. Why, and how Sherlock had managed to deserve to have John as a viewer, as a _subscriber_ , he’d never know. But John’s friends – they were another story.

He scoffed internally to himself, a smirk spreading across the whole of his expression as he considered his options.

Oh, he’d show them. He’d make his point. Now that he could, now that he knew he’d be able to reach the eyes of human beings who continuously make his life a living hell, he couldn’t give up the opportunity to shame them, to prove them wrong.

They would see, he would make them see, what a thoroughly equipped mind, and a simple alteration to song, could do.

“Something funny, Holmes?” His maths teacher asked, halfway through a lecture on quadratic equations.

Sherlock smirked a little wider, his eyes lifting to latch on to his teacher’s own as he swallowed and cleared his throat, “No sir. Nothing whatsoever.” 

He would do this. He _could_ do this.

He would take some kind of stand, a musical decision to prove a well-needed point. He would compose something new, something untouchable and untamable.

And, best of all, he would make John proud.


	6. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had never smiled so wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohmygod, I'm so sorry for this wait!  
> Honestly, you needn't forgive me because even I don't forgive me. I've started classes again at University and unfortunately I'm located in Florida so I was hit quite terribly by hurricane Irma.  
> But, it did give me time to write!  
> I do hope you enjoy this chapter!  
> It's longer than those previous so :,)  
> And I do hope to see comments as they're always so very inspiring. xxx
> 
> Remember! This fic has a Twitter: reachmyeyes! Follow for any and all updates. 
> 
> Enjoy Yellow!

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

He was distracted, off course, unnerved, unsettled, erratic, unsteady – he couldn’t bloody concentrate and whether that was simply because his mind just liked to watch him suffer, or his transport needed sustenance, or because a certain someone was on his mind he would never know. But he was, in fact, worried that, for the most part, he leaned toward the latter.

 _Ignore him, Sherlock Holmes_ , he told himself.

Ignore the blue eyes that were practically mini oceans – withholding so much mystery, so much wonder, so much unknown and unshed beauty. Ignore the shape of those plush lips, and the curve of those rugby trained calves, and the joyous harmony of that laugh, or the sun stroked surface of that blonde hair, or that – oh, for fuck’s sake.

Sherlock slammed his secret notebook shut, and shoved it to the side, his pens rolling away in fear as he let his elbows rest against the mahogany surface of his desk, his hands scratching, shaking, pulling at his curls in earnest. He was losing his edge. How was he supposed to compose a brand new style, a brand new vision, if he couldn’t focus? He needed to forget about John Watson.

John Watson and his stupid YouTube videos, his stupid rugby practice and his stupid, rather adorable, love for classical music and Sherlock’s own videos. Stupid. He was an idiot. He was a popular kid, a jock, a people-pleaser, kind on the outside, manipulative on the inside. He was ordinary. Wasn’t he?

 _Ping!_  
Sherlock jolted out of his thoughts and glared down at the distraction, a small message bubble appearing across the screen of his phone.

_How’s school?_

With a snort, he rolled his eyes and looked away from the device, grabbing for his pen again and reaching to throw his notebook open, aggravation swelling within him, his shoulders tense as he inhaled sharply, eager for everyone, in his thoughts as well, to leave him alone.  
_Ping!_ He growled, turning to glare at his mobile and narrowing his eyes.

_I’m trying to be civil. Can’t you tell?_

Scoffing, Sherlock leaned back in his chair, running an erratic hand through his curls and tapping his pen against his bottom lip, the crevice that usually stored his many ideas simply blank, a dull emptiness, aside from the reoccurring, unforgiving image of a blonde with blue eyes.  
Something intense. Something different.  
Something popular and likeable. Something “ _not boring_.”  
More upbeat, more exciting, more modern. More, more, more.  
_Ping!_

_Make any friends?_

Sherlock leaned forwards once more, placing his pen to paper and scribbling rapidly across the page. He knew what he would do. It had been done, but not by many, and not like this – and he would, of course, make it better.  
_Ping!_

 _Teasing. Obviously._  
  
He wondered what John would think. What if John hated this specific project? What if he uploaded his video and John loathed it so much he stopped watching? What if he unsubscribed? Sherlock’s pen stopped moving and he swallowed, looking down at the messy script doodled across the page. No. If John were anything like his friends, he’d probably agree that Sherlock needed a change, needed to “spice things up a bit.” But John wasn’t like his friends, was he? John had liked Sherlock’s videos. He’d liked the classic instrumentals and the soft melancholy compositions Sherlock stayed up all hours working on. John _appreciated_ him.

_Ping!_

_How’s Uncle Siger?_

Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes. He’d do this. It was one video. One. He’d change things a little and then go back to how things were – classical and boring, according to the ingenious James Sholto.

_Ping!  
Stop ignoring me._

He huffed and glanced at his phone, pointedly ignoring the unread messages and checking the time. He sighed, nodding once and grabbing his notebook, shoving the old thing into his black backpack and hoisting it over his shoulder, before slipping over to the opposite corner of his barren bedroom and grabbing his pre-packed duffle bag. He’d call Ms. Hudson on his way to school and see if he could reserve the studio for an hour or two - he could do this. Since when did he care so heavily about what John Watson thought of his videos? Before yesterday, he hadn't even known he watched them. So, what did it matter? He had 4,909 other subscribers who were waiting for something new, another video to watch, another composition to listen to.

_Ping!_

_Fine. Be petulant, brother mine._

Deep down, however, as much as he hated to admit it, it was John Watson’s opinion he held above all the rest.

 

* * *

 

  
John leaned back in the single, yellow, floral chair of the narrow dressing room hallway, staring blankly down at his phone, scrolling lazily through Twitter and holding back goofy smiles as he checked his notifications. He chuckled at a few of the more amusing " _tweeters_ " and blushed at the sweeter ones, expressing how much they enjoyed his videos and how he "gets them through the day."

This would always be his favorite part. Not the videos, not likes, not the number of views, but the people; the people who commented on his new content right away and followed him on Twitter whenever he mentioned he had one. Those were his highlights, things he looked forward to. The fact that there were real people out there who looked up to him, who he inspired, who relied on him; that was the best part, that was the most amazing feeling.

"Fans?" Molly smirked, arching a brow as she exited the fitting room, twirling cheerfully in a little red dress and posing in one of the hallway mirrors.

John nodded and swallowed before reciting, "Someone told me to 'steal Coach the Roach's TARDIS and vlog the entire thing.'"

Molly let out a loud giggle and slapped a hand to her mouth, shaking her head in amusement and grinning down at him, "You asked for it, making jokes like that. Now they all know you watch Doctor Who."

John scoffed and smiled down at the screen of his mobile, exiting Twitter and tapping onto Instagram, "And that's a bad thing?"

Molly snorted and twisted a bit more in her dress, observing how the color and body of the garment fit her before turning to glare playfully at John, "Do you even know me? Of course it's not a bad thing."

With a laugh, John nodded and touched onto the small icon at the bottom of the screen, opening up his camera and taking a quick picture of his shoes and the hall's pale, pink tiled floor, "Hey, at least I have practically everyone speculating that my rugby coach is the next Doctor."

Molly threw back her head as she guffawed, chestnut brown hair sliding off her shoulders to hang behind her before she composed herself, smiling shyly and turning away from the mirror to better face John, "As enlightening as that idea is, I need your opinion."

John quickly typed in a caption, informing the public and his followers that he was reluctantly helping a friend with a _post-birthday, clothes shopping spree_ , before turning back to Molly and shrugging a shoulder, "It looks nice."

Molly dropped her hands from her hips and let her jaw hang open, feigning utter astonishment, "Nice? That's the best you can do?"

Sighing and letting out an exasperated laugh, John put down his phone and observed Molly, eyeing how the color compared to her eyes, how the bodice fit her figure, how the shape of the dress suited her thin frame.

"Too loud," he began, shaking his head and biting his lip, getting to his feet and running a hand swiftly through his hair, "I wouldn't go with red. Try something yellow, maybe? Yellow fits you."

Molly smiled timidly and nodded, slipping away and back into the dressing room to remove the dress, sliding the curtain across behind her.

Happy with himself, John leaned back once more, crossing his arms over his chest and letting out a sigh, "Hey Molls?"

The small, gentle voice emanated from behind the thick fabric door, "Yeah?"

"How about dress advice for boy advice?"

Molly's head immediately appeared at the edge of the fitting room, her pale, bare neck extended as she arched a brow at John, " _Boy_ advice?"

"Not like that," He huffed, rolling his eyes and looking away, a blush tinting his features, "As in, Sherlock."

Molly smirked and disappeared once more, fumbling further with the clothes she'd been wearing when she walked into the overpriced store, "Sherlock Holmes?"

John nodded and stared blankly down at his hands, fingers messing blindly with the fringe of his hooded, rugby sweatshirt, "The one and only."

"Don't know much about him except that he's sculpted like a bloody Greek statue. Why?"

John felt his cheeks redden at the statement and swallowed, shrugging to himself and placing a hand on the back of his neck. "I wanna," He began, sighing shyly, "I don't know, be his friend, I guess."

The small girl reemerged, expertly tying her hair up in a brown ponytail, dressed now in blue jeans and a pale pink, baggy sweater that hung limply just past her waist. "I was wondering what you were up to," Molly chuckled, checking herself in the mirror, "I saw you two having lunch together."

John scoffed and nodded, scowling at the floor and shaking his head, "Yeah, Wilkes thoroughly buggered that up for me."

Molly hummed sympathetically and grabbed for her purse, motioning for John to follow as they slid out of the dressing room hallway and back into the calm of casual shoppers meandering around Molly's favorite store.

"He's a bit mysterious," She added, approaching a rack of clothing and flipping through the hangers.

"I guess," John cleared his throat, leaning up against one of the large shelves, of which held folded, multicolored skinny jeans, and placing his fists in his sweatshirt pockets.

"Not in a bad way, just as in, no one knows all that much about the lad," She shrugged, "only that he's super smart and does that deduction thing."

John nodded and let out a sharp, degrading laugh, "Yeah, and yet they still torment him."

Molly sighed, shooting him an apologetic look of empathy before continuing her search for something appealing and yellow.

"What is the deduction thing anyway?" John asked, narrowed his eyes as he frowned. Mike and his friends had mentioned it before, always saying how he knew things he shouldn't, and that he saw things no one should be able to see. Hell, the whole school was practically terrified of it.

Molly turned to him just slightly and shrugged a small, bony shoulder, "Well, apparently he looks at you and picks up on little details no one would really think to notice, ya know?"

John hummed and bobbed his head in understanding, his brows furrowing as he thought about it; it made sense, why people wouldn't particularly like that, but it merely made John all the more excited - Sherlock Holmes was a wonder, a puzzle he wished to solve.

"I don't think he trusts me," John began, looking at Molly with a genuine, open expression, eyes somewhat saddened as he explained, "at least not enough to truly be himself."

"Well you can't blame him," Molly stopped flipping through hangers and turned to him, crossing her arms and biting her lip in thought, "I'm sure with how most people treat him he doesn't necessarily take to strangers."

With a bit more determination, John nodded, moving steadily around Molly to continue her search while the two talked, fingers gliding past uninteresting garments, "I need to show him. Somehow, you know? That I'm not an arse, that I'm, I don't know, an average human being."

Molly snorted and grabbed at a dress John skipped past, yanking it from the metal rack as she smirked at him, "I don't think he necessarily wants _average_."

John rolled his eyes and followed as she turned back towards the dressing room, guiding the both of them once more into the little hallway where she yet again disappeared into the fitting area.

"But really, Molly," He laughed exhaustedly, "any ideas?"

He heard Molly hum from behind the curtain as she began slipping on the yellow cocktail dress, "Alright, well, how much _do_ you know about him?"

John scoffed and chewed on his bottom lip, "Basically only that he watches my videos and -"

"Hang on," Molly interrupted, giggling to herself, "He's a fan? Of _you_?"

John blushed, looking down as he listened to her laugh across from him, feeling his lips curve upwards in a proud smile, "Yeah, well. I'm just that good I guess."

Molly snickered, poking her head out again and giving him a cheeky grin, "You're irresistible, it seems."

John flushed and turned away, shaking his head and feigning a scowl, "Shut up, Hooper."

"You're such a worry wort," She squeaked in amusement, ducking back into the changing room, "Just give him your mobile number."

"Isn't that kind of," John bit his lip, "flirtatious?"

Molly reappeared draped in the petite, yellow dress, its skirt flowing out behind her, whilst the blouse stuck tight to her figure. "Only," She spun around in the mirror before turning to wink at him, "if you want it to be."

With a huff, John slammed back against the wall, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as Molly giggled and twirled, admiring her reflection carefully.

When she caught her breath, running a finger behind her ear to tuck away loose strands, she faced John, biting her lip and shrugging, "So?"

John nodded, "Definitely yellow."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock glared at his reflection in the mirror, scowling at the softening blues and purples and the emerging greens and yellows of his black eyes.

 _Disgusting_ , he thought to himself.

Bruises didn't exactly help his freakish looks, or diminish the attention he didn't want. At least it was fading. Chewing on his bottom lip, he yanked his backpack up from the bathroom floor and hoisted it back onto his shoulder, only to lean back down again and drag his duffle bag upwards as well.

He was officially shooting his video today. Luckily, Ms. Hudson found an empty session for him. She’d been happy to oblige his needs, of course only after scolding him on the sleep he didn't get last night. He had been brainstorming - and that meant he’d had no time for sleep - and he had told her such, which was why he could practically hear her frown through his mobile phone.

But he continued to express to her that the sooner he got his new video done - his new scheme, his new sound, his new design - the better, and she had reluctantly delivered him a stamp of approval for the use of her dance studio.

Ms. Hudson didn't exactly know about what he did. She knew he recorded his dances, and she knew it was important to him, but she didn't know to what extent he used said videos for.

He was almost certain she thought he was using them as footage for recruiting universities or dance programs. He did however, as a ‘ _thank you_ ’ for allowing him to use her studio, send her small portions of his original dances, sometimes by email or on a disc in the mail, seeing as how Ms. Hudson wasn't exactly a very tech-savvy human being.

She loved them endlessly and would continuously express just how talented he was, admiring his footwork and movements in the most admirable of technical manners possible. If there was ever one person Sherlock would admit to loving, it would certainly be Ms. Hudson.

Ignoring his gruesomely hideous face in the mirror, he held both bags by their straps, one on each shoulder, and made his way out of one of Baker's ever-so-not-clean restrooms, angrily hauling the heavy door open, only to run directly into another human being, sending himself suddenly tumbling backwards.

He caught his balance on the white bathroom wall and looked up, glare in place, ready to snap some arduous insult and be on his way, only to freeze on the spot, John Watson standing there, blue eyes apologetically wide as he lifted his hands in a playful surrender.

"Easy there," he chuckled, a warm smile on his face, "Alright?"

Sherlock blinked; there was the bronze hair again, and the pink cheeks and the plush lips and the white teeth, all put together in one utterly complete masterpiece atop a canvas of perfection.  
_He was losing it, Sherlock Holmes was losing it. Someone call 999 before it's too late.  
_

Realizing he was expected to say something, he cleared his throat and swallowed thickly, looking down and away from those oceanic irises and trying to head towards the door once more.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, readjusting his bag straps before stepped forwards and around John, only to feel a hand grip his shoulder, sending him into a nearly violent flinch, his entire body tensing for what his mind shouted as, _'John is just like them, he's going to hit you, watch him hit you, and he'll enjoy it to, here it comes, freak.'_

He shut his eyes tight, only to feel the touch slowly soften to a simple placement of hand, skin warming him through the soft fabric of his white dress shirt. He glanced up at John of whom was staring down at him in concern, blue puddles of distress shining down upon his pale, blank expression.

"What happened to your eye?"

Sherlock blinked; he didn't _know_? Clearly he knew. Was he teasing him? _Probably, maybe, yes, no?_ It angered Sherlock, as much as he never wanted to be angry at those blue, innocent eyes or that warm, currently missing, smile.

Was John completely _oblivious_? Or did Wilkes tell him what he'd done and ask John to go pester him about it? Or perhaps, which couldn't possibly be logical, John was _concerned? No._

John was kind _yes_ , caring _sure_ , polite _of course_ , but that didn't mean he was _concerned_. And certainly not for Sherlock’s well being, right?

Unable to think of a decent answer - did he want to be rude, honest, in-denial? - Sherlock simply shook his head and tried to push past the other boy, eager to get out of the uncomfortable and terribly tense situation, but John only reached out and grabbed his shoulder again, those nimble fingers searing like hot metal against his skin.

Sherlock froze, facing the handle of the bathroom door and swallowing his outrage and fear, the combination of both sticking thickly in his throat as he heard John take a step closer, breathing shallow and almost uneasy.

"Sherlock," John's voice beckoned, soft and careful and gentle, " _hey_."

Sherlock instantly shrugged his hand off at the piteous tone and scowled, glaring over his shoulder and snapping, "Ask your _friends_ ," before yanking the door open and exiting into the busy corridor of secondary school students.

He bit his lip hard as he practically sprinted to his next class, half of him heavy with regret, the other grasping on to some form of self-pride. He shouldn't have even said anything. He never should have said anything.  
Fuck it all.

 

* * *

 

“ _John_!”

The rugby captain jolted in his seat, his head spinning to meet eyes with James Sholto, of whom was currently watching him with a somewhat confused and wholly irritated expression as he huffed, “Are you even listening?”

John hadn't been, whatsoever, because, to him, at this very moment, watching a skinny, ethereal boy with curly hair huddle up in his thick sweater and scribble in his odd notebook, was far more intriguing than listening to another one of Sholto’s mundane ex-girlfriend stories.

Swallowing thickly and glancing up at James, John took a sip of his water bottle, leaving his school lunch untouched, and hummed to himself, muttering a soft, “‘Course.”

Sholto rolled his eyes and continued on with his sob story of how she - Christie? Rachel? Jessica? - never even gave him a blowjob during the six weeks they were dating.

John knew about the majority of his friends, though sometimes he didn't enjoy calling them that. He knew that they were rude, and arrogant, and untrustworthy. He also knew that they were judgmental, and close-minded, and, he did in fact know, that they were bullies. The worst kind, verbal and physical; the kind you see on television that practically keeps you from wanting to attend secondary school. And he’d known for a while that Sherlock, mysteriously calm and collected Sherlock, was one of their victims. Hell, honestly he seemed to be everyone’s victim. And as much as John hated it, he didn't exactly know how to stop it.

“Hello fags,” Wilkes’ voice shot up over Sholto’s ridiculous tale, as he slammed his tray of food down and smirked at the other boys sat before him.

John glanced up for only a moment, taking his the sour-faced boy, before he stared down at his lonely grilled cheese and oddly shaped apple, trying his best to ignore the disgusting mouth of someone he unfortunately was forced to share his space with.

“Sebbo,” James laughed and clapped him on the back, Mike and Sebastian Moran doing the same, whilst Greg seemed thoroughly caught up in something on his mobile.

“Guess who just scored in the library,” Wilkes grinned wickedly, pointing his thumbs at himself and cackling under his breath, low and unsettling.

Lestrade lifted his head, eyes narrowed at the dark-haired boy and one brow arched in confusion, “What, is there some kind of sale going on?”

John smiled to himself, shaking his head and lifting apple to his lips. Gregory Lestrade - always sweet but terribly oblivious.

“No, _wanker_ ,” Sebastian Wilkes snapped, his nose scrunching as though the very idea of books insulted his integrity, “as in Abigail Walker. You know, the slut with the pigtails?”

John closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply, and looking away, trying his best to remain cool, his chest practically swelling with red, hot rage as he listened to the cold, ignorantly arrogant voice of a boy he’d very much like to beat to a pulp.

“No bloody way,” Sholto wheezed, face crinkling with amusement as he stared up at Wilkes, expression almost awed by his presence, “I’ve been trying to convince her since the start of the semester.”

John put down his apple and swallowed thickly. _Were his ears steaming? Felt like it._

Mike Stamford shook his head at their conversation, leaning across the table and scoffing loudly, “What’d you do, Seb? Sway her with your good looks and charms?"

Wilkes snickered and spread his arms wide in an audacious gesture, grinning wide and arching a dark eyebrow, “Obviously.”

John stood up, grabbing his tray of food and school bag and leaving the table, heading directly for that special booth tucked away in the back of the cafeteria where a special someone sat arched over the same, tattered notebook he seemed to always be scribbling in.

Within a few seconds, John was placing his school lunch down directly across from Sherlock Holmes, and sitting with a huff, removing his red backpack and shoving it on the floor beside him.

Unreadable, multi-colored eyes shot up to gaze widely at him, and that same notebook was once again thrown shut. Neither of them said a word as John quickly began eating his apple again, forcing down his irritation as to not scare Sherlock away, the boy currently watching John with a rather terrified and confused expression.

Swallowing, John smiled, as warm and as friendly as he could at the curly-haired boy, the bruise between his brow and eye practically taunting him, tingling his nerves with self-hate and pity, knowing deep down that one of the people he spent most of his school hours with put that mark right there, on those pale, innocent features.

John inwardly shook his head - Molly was right. He was worrying too much; why couldn't he just do it, say it, speak it out, loud and clear?

“Do you want to hang out?” John watched as Sherlock practically paled at the question, brows nearly disappearing behind that hairline of curls, and mouth opening just slightly as he narrowed his eyes.

“I,” He began and them seemingly started to change his mind, shaking his head and pursing his lips, “Sorry?”

John shrugged, eager to keep himself together, and cleared his throat, “It's nearly the weekend. Most people do stuff on the weekend, ya know?” He took another bite of his apple.

Sherlock swallowed and looked down shyly at his closed notebook, a red tint blooming across his cheeks and somewhat boosting John’s self-confidence - not to mention how _adorable_ it was.  
“I’m not most people.”

John smiled widely and lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, “I know.”

Sherlock glanced up with open eyes, the strange nature of their color swarming in both confusion and uncertainty before he inhaled sharply and shook his head, running a hand through his curls, “I can’t.”

John was most definitely on to the shy, anti-social boy, and he quickly smirked, “Why not?”

Sherlock blinked and noticeably swallowed, glancing away for a moment as if to think before turning back to John once more, “Chores, homework, other such _plans_.”

John grinned, and watched as Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as if the other boy couldn't see straight through his facade, as if he wasn't aware Sherlock was eager to dodge the bullet of socialization.

“So many excuses,” John huffed playfully, eyeing the boy with a careful, gentle expression and observing as his entire face lifted in an amused smile, his eyes downcast as he realized he wasn't fooling anyone, and certainly not John.

“Maybe,” Sherlock added and timidly glanced down at his hands, chewing on his bottom lip to hold back an even wider grin.  
_Plan B, then,_ John mused and grunted softly as he leaned forwards, placing his elbows on the table and looking directly at Sherlock’s guarded features.

“Can I borrow your phone?” John asked, arching a brow and trying, desperately, to hold back his sneaky smirk.

“My phone?”

John nodded, “Left mine at home.”

Sherlock arched a brow and then frowned, reaching into his pocket and handing over the mobile rather uneasily, clearing his throat and shyly refusing to meet John’s eye, “Don’t run away with it.”

John was aware Sherlock probably didn't trust him, but he’d prove to him his intentions were purely innocent.

John carefully took the phone with a bob of his head and a smile and quickly started it up, following through with his ingenious plan, before handing the cell back and grinning openly, grabbing for his backpack and getting to his feet, leaving his tray but grabbing his half-eaten apple.

“Thanks,” He beamed and watched as Sherlock gingerly took back the mobile, swallowing nervously and gazing at John with a rather desperate look, as though he was terribly confused and tired of it.

John readjusted his bag and cleared his throat, winking at Sherlock - unsure as to why, perhaps his confidence was simply in overload - and turning to leave, glancing over his shoulder as the bell rang and he began to walk towards the exit, “Talk to ya later, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock swallowed, blinking down at the phone still in his hands, the students around him gathering up their belongings and heading towards their next classes, his heart beating far too rapidly against the confines of his ribcage. What had just happened?

Scoffing to himself, he glanced down at his mobile and tapped the screen, boosting it to life and revealing his text messages. There, before him, portrayed in glowing letters on his phone’s screen, was the contact name _John_ , and, within a conversation, one text sent from his own phone to what could only be a certain rugby captain’s. A small, winking emoticon.

Sherlock looked up at the doors John had exited through and smiled wide, biting his inner cheek to keep from being noticed as he came to the realization of what John had done.

Smirking, he leaned down to put his notebook away, only to hear his phone buzz against the lunch table. He zipped up his bag and stood, glancing down at the screen once more and narrowing his eyes.

_Told you you'd talk to me later. ;)_

Sherlock blushed and rolled his eyes, tucking his phone away into his jeans' pocket and heading for his next class, hoping, deep deep down, that there was no double meaning to this, that John genuinely had wanted his number, had really truly wanted to spend time with him, and that he wouldn’t turn out to be like everyone else.

 

* * *

 

 

John shut his bedroom door behind him, smiling softly to himself as he put down his school bag and rugby gear and ran a hand through his sweat soaked hair.

He went about his after-rugby-practice routine and headed for the bathroom he shared with Harry, locking the door behind him and turning the shower nozzle to hot, stripping down and quickly sliding past the curtain and under the spray of water.

He’d gotten to boss around Wilkes and Sholto today, much to his utmost joy, and on top of it all, he’d been successful with Sherlock - well, somewhat successful.

He’d sneakily managed to obtain the boy’s phone number, but the part that worried him was whether or not Sherlock had even wanted it.

He ran his hands through his now soap clad hair, and sighed. He was acting like a lovesick schoolboy - which he wasn’t, _lovesick_ of course.

Sure, he thought Sherlock was rather adorable, beautiful honestly, with those incandescent eyes and curls that swooped like melted chocolate, and the snowy white flawlessness of his skin, but - well, he wasn't gay.

John blinked and swallowed. Hell, he was even having trouble convincing himself.

He finished up in the shower and quickly headed back to his room, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips as he approached his dresser, quickly changing into a pair of baggy sweatpants and choosing to remain shirtless.

He spent the rest of his night pondering, and worrying; thinking about Sherlock, about his mostly horrid friends, about new video ideas, about his channel in general - he brainstormed and considered new things and did every bit of it with theballetbee’s compositions on shuffle.

And when he got cozy under his bed covers, body exhausted and mind officially worn out, he saw a small message notification appear atop his mobile screen.

_Good night, John. -SH_

John had never smiled so wide.

 _Good night, Sherlock_.


	7. Wherefore Art Thou Romeo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some might say that’s romantic. 
> 
> Death by rat poison? Or death by dagger? -SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp* a new chapter? So soon?  
> Yes, I didn't slack and I had a wave of motivation and excitement hit me to work further on this, and ah, for once I am so very proud of this chapter.  
> It's much longer than the others and a bit more exciting.  
> As always, your feedback is infinitely appreciated.  
> I am so touched by what attention this fic has received so far and I am so excited to continue!  
> Thank you all for continuing to stick by me.
> 
> Enjoy Wherefore Art Thou Romeo!
> 
>  
> 
> Follow reachmyeyes on Twitter for updates.

**watsonmyface**

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* * *

 

When John pulled the old Toyota into school Friday morning, he could already spot Molly Hooper sprinting across the student parking lot and over to where John was gingerly aligning his car between the two, parallel lines. He watched as she waited, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands grasping the straps of her spotty pink backpack so hard her knuckles were beginning to turn white.

Unable to help himself, John smiled, already aware of why she was standing so close to his car window, of why she was grinning from ear to ear, of why her cheeks were faintly red with exertion from jogging like a maniac passed crowds of loud people.

She was in full fangirl-overload. And John certainly didn't blame her.

 _Theballetbee’s_ newest video was iconic. Not even iconic, it was historical, it was revolutionary, it was like a brand new version, a brand new sound, of composition, of violin, of music and it had enraptured John liked pollen to a honeybee. It was instrumental with a beat, with an undertone of techno, a pinch of dubstep, a poke of melodic vocals, and a whole lot of genius. John couldn't begin to explain how very in love he was with whatever sound snuck out of the strings beneath the fingers of that stranger, that violinist with the blurred face. 

But, as bewilderingly new as it was, it was also oddly coincidental. He couldn't shake the small clue, the small suspicion, that had wormed its way into the back of his mind, that somehow, in some way, the anonymous dancer had been there, on that very day John had leaned over and played his music for his friends.

 _Boring_ , Sholto had called it. _Antique_. 

Deep down John was holding on to the idea that maybe, just maybe, the _Bee_ went to Baker, and maybe, just _maybe_ , he was in John’s maths class. It was a silly thing really, and he had no real evidence or substantial reasoning behind it other than a short five minute exchange between his friends but why else would the musical genius suddenly change his style so drastically? Why would he alter who he was unless he was eager to prove wrong those who dissed him?

Perhaps he was being far too hopeful - or far too selfish. 

 _The world doesn't revolve around you, John,_ his mind shouted back at him. 

A hand slamming onto the dirty window of the tattered Toyota jolted him back to life, and he looked up, coming face to face with an amused, yet utterly enthused, Molly Hooper, of whom was mouthing and yelling muffled, impatient words at him through the glass. He chuckled to himself and shut off the car’s engine, grabbing for his backpack and opening the door, slipping out and locking the vehicle behind him.

Almost instantly, arms were wrapping around his waist and a squeal was emanating, shrill and piercing, from the small girl tucked against his chest, clad in the same yellow dress she’d bought just a day ago, white sneakers and white socks to match. 

John scoffed and wrapped his arms around her in response, smiling and chuckling as his best friend practically shook on her feet. 

“You’ve seen it, I assume,” Molly asked as she pulled away, grinning up at John and tucking the loose strands of chestnut brown hair back behind her ears.

John laughed loudly and readjusted his backpack before beginning the small walk to Baker’s main hall, Molly trailing along beside him as he bobbed his head in confirmation, “Of course, I have.”

The small girl giggled and spun in place, strolling backwards beside him for a minute before turning back around and squeaking to herself, squeezing her phone tightly where it rested in one of her hands, “Wasn't it incredible?” 

John smiled down at his brown Oxford’s and nodded, biting his lip and silently cursing the blush that tinted his cheeks, “Bloody unreal.” 

Molly swooped her arm around his, letting it hook at his elbow as they walked, sauntering softly to the school building, his timid friend no longer timid in such a moment, her eyes wide with excitement, brows lifted, cheeks crinkling in joy and utmost admiration. 

“It was so different, it was so unique,” She gasped, gesturing rapidly with her hands as she spoke, “I mean, Lindsey Sterling who? This plonker practically knocked the music industry onto their arses!”

John smirked at her words, “It was definitely something.”

“It was more than that,” She awed, “it was practically angelic!”

Beaming brightly, John couldn't help but agree with her words, no matter how overwhelmed she currently was or how dramatic she was being - it was, and there was no denying it, a performance to be reckoned with. John chewed on the inside of his cheek as he pondered the entirety of the situation, the ingenious new composition, his suspicions, his growing adoration for a masked man behind a screen. 

“I think he goes here,” John couldn't help himself from admitting, and he watched carefully as Molly stopped in her tracks, turning to face him with an arched brow. 

She narrowed her eyes and laughed shortly, “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know, Molls,” He swallowed and continued their walk to the main hall, pulling Molly along with him and smiling rather shyly, shrugging a single shoulder, “I had this conversation with my mates in maths.”

Molly blinked, “And?”

“And they said he was boring; that his violin was antique and that classical music was music to go to sleep to.”

“Gits,” Molly Hooper muttered, and John let out a laugh, nodding his head in agreement.

“You’re telling me,” He huffed and then shook his head, rerouting the conversation and continuing, “Anyway, now he comes with this? Something completely different, something utterly and completely opposite of the ordinary classical he always does?” 

The small girl hummed to herself and bobbed her head to the side thoughtfully, loosening her grip a little on the poor mobile in her pale hand, “I suppose it is rather coincidental.”

Sighing, John grabbed hold of the school’s main doors, yanking one of them open by its handle and waiting for Molly to enter first before quickly following behind, head turning with his upside down thoughts, spinning and churning within his gut, desperate for answers.

Why was he so determined to know? Why couldn't he just leave it alone?

“I mean, I’ve always considered it,” Molly began as they both headed towards their lockers, “but I don't know, it seemed too surreal, you know?” 

“Definitely,” John grunted, turning to her over his shoulder and laughing softly, meandering over to the blue cabinet door and expertly entering his passcode, springing the lock into life as it opened, bearing his abhorrent number of books and excess, unnecessary items. Once he’d transferred over whatever he needed and didn't need, he slammed the door shut and lifted his backpack onto his back once more, approaching Molly of whom was still busy fumbling with her textbooks and notepads. 

“Look,” he began, smile apologetic, “its just a hunch, yeah? No going and getting our hopes up.”

Molly turned and chuckled, grinning up at him gingerly, expression soft as usual and features curved upward in pure delight, “Of course, John. Doesn't mean I'm not going to investigate, though.” 

And with that, she winked and scurried away, a skip in her step and a wide grin on John’s face as she departed. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The continuous slamming of a fist against his wooden door was what woke Sherlock up earlier than he would have liked that morning - considering he’d been up all night deciding whether or not he should hit the upload button on his new creation.

Half delirious from lack of sleep, he stumbled out of his mundane, white bed sheets, groaning to himself and running a hand through his hair as he reached for the door handle, yanking the slab open to reveal Uncle Siger, looking irritated and wholly sleep deprived.

 _Hm_ , Sherlock thought, _so they have something in common_.

The curly-haired genius braced himself and slowly arched a brow up at the man, of whom simply scoffed and gave the skinny boy a once over.

“You look like a bloody _twig_ ,” He snapped, bearing his teeth in a wickedly, dreadful smirk, “what, you forget to eat or something?” 

Sherlock swallowed and inwardly laughed at the question; he wasn't far off honestly. 

“Anyway,” his uncle started up again, uncaring as to what Sherlock had to say in response, lifting a hand and running it through his greasy mess of hair, its unkemptness matching the rest of his figure - clothes unwashed for what looked like several days, button down shirt smelling strongly of cigarettes and booze, “don’t come home after school, yeah? Go to the park, or have a fake homework session with your fake _mates_ again.” 

_Shit. Another one of these days then._

“Why?” Sherlock asked, tone hoarse from lack of use, and he cleared his throat quickly, glancing down at the floor and away from his uncle as he awaited the answer to his question, only to instantly regret the decision as a hand slapped him upside the head, causing his ears to ring and his figure to turn uncomfortably. 

“Why do you think, _smart arse_ ,” His uncle spat, his hand still midway in the air, his eyes widened in irritation as he watched what he probably saw as his poor excuse of a nephew.

He whirled away from Sherlock, heading back towards the kitchen and leaving the dancer standing in his doorway, ear throbbing and fingers tremble in both rage and trepidation. 

“I have some friends coming over,” He heard Siger’s voice call out from the other room, the clink of a glass signaling the telltale sign of a drink about to be poured, “and I don't need you embarrassing me.” 

Sherlock scoffed bitterly to himself, glaring at the floor and shaking his head. He supposed it made sense. Hell, if Sherlock were in his position, he’d want his uncle to leave too. 

 _Oh well_ , Sherlock swallowed, shutting his eyes for a moment, _he’d just stay longer at the dance studio._

 

* * *

 

If literature were a person, John would stab them in their sleep.  

It wasn't that he didn't find it interesting, or even important, it was simply that he found it entirely grating. Give him a math problem or a physics test any day, but literature? 

He groaned to himself, staring begrudgingly at the copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ in his hands, his eyes practically drooping as he glared at the words - _thou, thy, thee_ \- whilst his teacher pointed at different students of whom offered to each play a role, reading stanza by stanza, taking turns as characters in the story.

Molly, of course, was eager to read as Juliet, and she’d urged him from the desk beside his to “ _pretty pretty please be Romeo_ ” so that she wouldn't have to awkwardly flounce and swoon over some other random boy in the room - of course, he’d openly refused and she’d gotten stuck with Philip Anderson.

Everyone in the class was seemingly eager to take part in the play and it had begun to worry John that he would be the only one not enthused about reading the tale of two idiotic lovers, but when he glanced over at Sherlock Holmes and took note of the hunched shoulders, the bored-to-death expression and how he’d hidden his phone behind his open book, John knew he wasn't alone. 

And that’s how he’d found himself doing the same, sneaking his phone out and behind his copy of the play just as Greg Lestrade was enthusiastically reading his lines as Tybalt. 

 

_Not a literature fan either?_

 

He sneakily risked looking over at Sherlock, watching and smiling to himself the minute he saw the curly-haired boy check his phone, admiring the small smirk that lifted at the corner of his pale, pink lips. 

 

_Literature, sure. Romeo and Juliet? Absolutely not. -SH_

 

John stifled a laugh and swallowed the amusement threatening to blow his cover. He carefully lifted his head from his mobile, his eyes searching for his teacher of whom merely sat at the front of the room, bobbing her head as the other students around him happily read their lines. He went back to tapping at his phone’s on-screen keyboard. 

 

_Why not? Not a fan of dying for the one you love?_

 

John waited, feigning a studious look as he pretended to read along until his phone vibrated. 

 

_But that’s the thing, isn't it? They didn't die for each other. They killed themselves out of pure selfishness and used the excuse that they simply couldn't live without one another. -SH_

 

John blinked down at the words on his screen before glancing up and over at Sherlock, of whom was blankly staring at the book in front of him, phone lying still against his desk. The rugby captain felt a small smirk tug at the side of his mouth, and he held back a chuckle at Sherlock’s sudden in-depth diagnosis. When he turned back to his mobile, he caught Molly gazing at him with bright-eyed curiosity, a soft grin lining her features as she looked between John and Sherlock almost knowingly. 

John felt his cheeks redden and he quickly went back to his text messages. 

 

_Some might say that’s romantic._

 

_Death by rat poison? Or death by dagger? -SH_

 

John forced back a snort. 

 

_Neither. I meant the whole “can’t live without one another” thing._

 

_Romantic? They’re dead, why would it be even remotely romantic to them. -SH_

 

John swallowed and slowly, casually, looked around at the other students, taking note of the page they were on and quickly flipping his own copy to its rightful place, before going back to their stimulating conversation. 

 

_Good point. Ever seen the movie?_

 

_Movie? -SH_

 

_Yeah. Film, motion picture, feature, flick, cinematic?_

 

_Hilarious. -SH_

 

John smiled.

 

_No, I haven't. I wasn’t aware there was one. -SH_

 

_What, seriously? There’s several._

 

_I’m sure Shakespeare is very pleased with that turn of events. -SH_

 

John narrowed his eyes, smiling in confusion before gently typing a response. 

 

_You know he’s dead, right?_

 

_Of course I know he’s dead. It was a joke. I was joking. -SH_

 

_Right. Anyway, they make my sister cry like a baby._

 

_Please specify whether or not she currently IS an infant. -SH_

 

John bit the insides of his cheeks to contain his desperately confined giggles.

 

_You’re gonna get me in trouble._

 

_What? How? -SH_

 

_I’ll end up laughing and interrupting Anderson’s praise-worthy Romeo._

 

_Please do, he’s positively awful. -SH_

 

This time John couldn't keep the small puff of air from leaving his cheeks and he froze, feeling a number of eyes gazing his way, and looking up to find his literature teacher glaring scornfully at him. 

“Something you’d like to share with us, Mr. Watson?” Ms. Montgomery asked, all proper and posh, the wrinkles in her neck shaking like jello as she spoke.

John bit his lip and snuck a glance at Sherlock, of whom was watching him with a raised brow as if wondering the very same thing, pale expression positively glowing with victory at having made John outright giggle.

Shrugging effortlessly, he turned back to the old woman at the front of the room and swallowed, “It’s a funny play.”

The other students around him snickered at his comment, Molly’s eyes practically bulged from their sockets at his response, and Anderson’s already sour face twisted into a look of bitter annoyance.

Ms. Montgomery cleared her throat and frowned at him, uncaring towards his, what she believed to be, rebellious snark, “And what, pray tell John, do you find so funny about Shakespeare’s famous _tragedy_?” 

“Uh,” John pursed his lips and looked to Molly for help, watching as she rolled her eyes and pointed at a stanza in the play, indicating their stopping point he’d ever so _rudely_ interrupted, and he quickly dropped his eyes to the words in his own copy. 

 

_ROMEO [to Juliet]: If I profane with my unworthiest hand_

_This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:_

_My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand_

_To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss._

 

John shrugged again, “He compared his lips to pilgrims.” 

The class busted into a fit of giggles and sniggers and a sense of pride swarmed within John’s chest, and he too cracked a smile at his statement, watching as Molly glared playfully at him and shook her head fondly, whilst his teacher merely cleared her throat once more and clapped to get the other students under control.

“Right,” She announced, “back to your books, come on. Philip, continue.” 

John leaned back in his seat, exhaling swiftly and shutting his eyes from a moment before feeling the small, routine buzz of his phone and glancing down at the screen, using his copy of the play as a shield yet again. 

 

_Good one. -SH_

 

He glanced up and over at the slender boy, sitting upright in his seat, attention fixated on the book in front of him, clad in yet another oversized, hooded sweatshirt and his usual adoration for black skinny jeans. Frankly, to John, he looked adorable, sitting there with his curls shaped as they usually were, with the exception of a loose ringlet resting against his forehead, contrasting effortlessly with the paleness of his flawless complexion. John swallowed the knot in his throat as his heart swelled with an overwhelming need to protect, to be gentle with the boy, to be nothing but honest and kind and sweet to the tall, thin figure he was so seemingly fond of, when he’d only known him for a mere short time. 

He looked back down at his phone and began to type.

 

_I’m no genius, but I did the best I could. :)_

 

_It was satisfactory. -SH_

 

John smirked, remembering their last conversation in which Sherlock responded in such a way, and shook his head in amusement. 

 

_Am I just overall purely satisfactory?_

 

_Of course not. I’m sure you’re bad at some things. -SH_

 

_I’m bad at scrapbooking._

 

He watched as Sherlock actually smiled at his reply, the brunette’s plush lips rising at their edges before his nimble fingers went to work on a response. 

 

_Scrapbooking? -SH_

 

_Yep. Fingers are too big to glue any little things down. My sister used to make a lot of them and always dragged me into it, but halfway through, after she realized I was only making it harder on her, she kicked me out of helping._

 

John smiled at the memory, recollecting how Harry had always made scrapbooks for Dad to take with him whenever he left for service - it was tradition for her. But then, of course, she’d come out as gay and Dad hadn't taken it too well.

Whenever he was given leave to come home for a few days, she’d stay at Clara’s, more than eager to stay away from the man. On more than one occasion, John would hear Harry mumble to herself about how glad she was that their “old man” was in the military.

Mum was fine with it, the whole sexuality thing - hell, she was the one who told the both of them, “ _love is love and there’s no helping who your soulmate is_ ,” and John was more than grateful for that.

But John, himself, couldn't afford to be gay - or anything else for that matter.

He just couldn't - his dad would forever look down on him as the worst son in history and his friends would torment him until the day he graduated. He’d seen how bad it was for Harry; he wasn't sure if he could ever face the threat of it. 

Shaking his head, confused by his odd turn of thoughts, he took a deep breath and looked down at his mobile, having zoned out and completely missed Sherlock’s response. 

 

_Not an infant then. -SH  
_

 

John grinned and shook his head.

 

 _No, not an infant._  

 

_You admire your sister. -SH_

 

Narrowing his eyes, John typed a reply. 

 

_What makes you think that?_

 

_You’ve mentioned her twice already. -SH_

 

With a small smile, John looked up, flipping a couple pages to get back on track again, and then turned back to their textual conversation, having, quite certainly, the best literature class he’d had all semester. 

 

_Huh. Yeah, I guess I do._

 

_Why? -SH_

 

_She’s tough. Brave._

 

_Hm. -SH_

 

Maybe John would have to put her in one of his videos someday.

 

_Any siblings?_

 

_One, unfortunately. -SH_

 

_Unfortunately?_

 

_He’s a fat, pain in my arse, though luckily for my quality of life, I don’t see him often. -SH_

 

John bit the inside of his cheek in mirth. 

 

_Older brother then?_

 

_Mm. -SH_

 

_Why don’t you see him often?_

 

_He practically lives and breathes his career. -SH_

 

John chewed on his bottom lip, sympathy twisting in the back of his throat, even if Sherlock insisted he was nothing but a nuisance. 

 

_That sucks._

 

_No, it really doesn't. -SH_

 

_Aw, come on. You must miss him sometimes._

 

_No, I really mustn’t. -SH_

 

John licked his lips in thought, rather pleased to be learning so much about the closed-off and guarded Sherlock Holmes, praising his past self for sneakily obtaining Sherlock’s phone number. Inhaling sharply, John slowly formulated a response, feeling obliged to offer a bit about himself in turn. 

 

_My dad’s in the army._

 

_I know. -SH_

 

John’s head shot up and he turned to gaze at Sherlock, his body unmoving aside from his fingers still stumbling over the letters on his keyboard.

 

_You said so in one of your videos. -SH_

 

John exhaled softly and smiled, nodding his head slowly and eagerly typing back to the boy.

 

_You really pay attention._

 

If Sherlock blushed, John didn't notice.

 

_Course I do. I told you I liked them. -SH_

 

_I’ll have a new one up by tonight._

 

_I look forward to it. -SH_

 

John grinned.

 

* * *

 

Notifications for: _theballetbee_

_36 new subscribers._

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* * *

 

Sherlock strolled to the dance studio with a smile on his face. He couldn't remember the last time he’d smiled so much, in a literature class of all places. But John had done that - John had been, well. John had been lovely. More than lovely, John had been kind, and sweet, and amusing, and _interested_.

He had been _interested_ in _Sherlock_. He’d asked questions and enjoyed Sherlock’s light conversation and he’d smiled and smirked and come up with an excuse for laughing in the middle of Anderson’s Romeo monologue.

And even more unexplainable - Sherlock hadn't gotten bored. In fact, he hadn't wanted to stop texting the blonde boy - he’d have texted John until the end of the period if he could have, but Montgomery’s monotone bark had knocked them both from their conversation and forced them to work on writing a summary of what they’d read so far - due at the end of class. 

And so it left Sherlock in a state of indecision, pushing open the doors to the studio and glancing at himself in the many mirrors, the urge to write out a small, superfluous message to the rugby team’s captain tickling the ends of his fingers. He slowly placed his hand over his pocket, feeling the rim of his mobile and pondering quietly to himself, chewing on his bottom lip with uncertainty.

No, he shouldn't bother John. But perhaps John _wanted_ to be bothered?

Perhaps he was preparing to dress for rugby practice, bored out of his mind, waiting patiently for someone - anyone - to text him in a means of distraction. Sherlock blinked and rolled his eyes at his imagination, shaking his head with a scoff and kneeling down to dig through his ballet duffle, grabbing out his shoes, their attached pink ribbons trailing against the wooden dance floor.

He paused in his movements, his tights half out of their pocket in his bag, and swallowed thickly. 

But could he be? 

Sat there on the bench in the boy’s locker room, removing his flannel, warm and worn down from a long day of classes, revealing the expense of a pale stomach, lean and toned from year’s of hard practice and rugby training…

Perhaps he was laughing, that bright, glowing reveal of white teeth, at a joke Mike yelled from across the room, or maybe he was keeping to himself, ignoring his friends cracking snide jokes at one another and insulting the lesser than them, whilst he dug further through his bag, pulling out his practice clothes and cleats…

And maybe he was grabbing the waistband of his jeans, reaching for the button and slowly popping them open, his hands beside his hips as he ever so slowly…

The vibration from his pocket sent him jolting upwards, flustered and blushing as he reached into his pocket and yanked out his mobile, swallowing the lump in his throat and inhaling sharply as he read the screen. 

 ** _One new message from: John_**. 

Ashamed of where his thoughts had been heading, he slowly clicked open the chat, stared down at the speech bubbles and bit his lip as he read. 

 

_Thanks for today in Lit. :)_

 

Sherlock smiled, looking down shyly and eagerly, much to his own embarrassment, wrote back a response, trying his best to remain calm and collected, cool and calculating. 

 

_Anything to drown out Anderson’s infamous Romeo. -SH_

 

He imagined John’s warm grin, his lips curving up in mirth as he stared down at his phone. At least, he hoped he was smiling. John deserved to smile - everyday, every second, every waking moment. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, blinking repeatedly - _where the bloody hell had that come from?_

 

 _If only I could text you during rugby practice to drown out Wilkes’ BO_. 

 

Sherlock stifled a chuckle and then looked up, recollecting that he was alone, incredibly alone, in an empty dance studio. He swallowed and bit his lip, his fingers moving against the keyboard swiftly. 

 

_Buy him some deodorant as a Christmas gift. -SH_

 

_I don’t think I’ll survive that long._

 

Sherlock allowed himself a single giggle, before he sighed and clicked the button atop his phone to lock its screen, turning to place it gently into his duffle bag, only to hear and feel it vibrate one final time. 

 

_And besides._

_The arse doesn't deserve any gifts._

 

Sherlock smiled sadly to himself and shook his head, moving instead to shove his phone away and grab for his tights, wearily wondering to himself, as he walked towards the studio’s small bathroom to change, if John truly meant that.  

 

 

* * *

 

“You got a new girl or something, mate?” Wilkes blurted out as John was busy packing away his school clothes and hoisting his backpack into his locker. 

The captain froze and arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder rather unenthusiastically as he called out to Seb, a deep swell of unease forming in his gut, “What the hell are you on about?”

Sholto chuckled as he came around the corner, half dressed in loose shorts and his cleats and socks, eyeing John as he reached into his own bag to pull out an oddly colored workout tank, “Oh, look at the lad, he’s getting defensive.”

John slammed his locker shut and turned around to face them, glancing at Greg and Mike still pulling on their gear, before glaring at both James and Sebastian, the two practically sneering at him, “No, seriously. _What_ are you talking about?” 

“You, mate,” Wilkes scoffed, grabbing for his water bottle and leaning against a row of lockers, arrogance laced into every curve of his figure, “smiling down at your phone all doe-eyed.” 

John rolled his eyes, shaking his head and grabbing the final things he’d need for the field, eager to remove himself from the conversation, nearly every eye beginning to fall upon him and his confused, yet guarded, stance, arms hanging limply as he cleared his throat, “I’m surprised you even know what doe-eyed means, Seb.” 

“Oi,” Wilkes sniffed, “Course, I do. Now stop evading.”

“Another big word for you,” John murmured to himself as he gathered his things and began sauntering towards the locker room exit, mind whirling with agitation, only to be stopped in place as Sebastian Wilkes grabbed for his shoulder, squeezing it tight and letting out a sharp laugh. 

“Details after practice, yeah?” He smirked, arching a brow questioningly before wiggling them in perversion. 

John clenched his fists and put on a fake, far too forced smile, glancing over his shoulder at the bulbous, dark-haired brute, hair nearly black, a bit of stubble lining his chin, teeth white and practically snarling with glee, before swallowing and laughing bitterly, “No. Get your hard-on somewhere else.” 

And with that, he shrugged off Seb’s hand and flung himself out the door. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock connected his phone to the studio stereo and quickly found what he was looking for - _Ballet of the Little Cafe_. This particular routine was to be reminiscent of his earlier videos, when he’d merely dance to wordless instrumentals, no words, no lyrics, no voices, simply mechanisms that brought forth timeless rhythms with the touch of a key, the deliverance of a note, or the pluck of a string. 

He quickly clicked record on his camcorder, tapped the play button on his phone, and moved to the middle of the studio. 

Piano. 

Sherlock extended a leg, let his arms flow with grace, brought out poise from places it was least expected, made way for innocence and purity and a world devoid of horror and cruelty to match the soft sounds of joy woven into the start of the melody. 

The Accordion singing alongside it. 

Bend, flutter, sway, lean, slide, caress. 

Dance. 

More piano, more melancholy. 

Brows tilted with sorrow, mouth curved downward, cheeks hollow. 

Grace, poise.

Loneliness. Seclusion.

Emotions and insecurities all tucked away in the gentle voice of expertly embraced instruments, wailing and crying about what makes them hurt, in the softest way possible. 

 

* * *

 

John huffed as he stomped towards the rugby field, his mind ticking rapidly with thoughts on seemingly every little thing he had plaguing him in his life - his brain growled at Wilkes, hummed happily at the thought of talking to Sherlock again, groaned at the idea of playing rugby for two hours, and whirled with new evidence towards whom _theballetbee_ might be. It was all a lot to handle and, truly, he just needed a day to sort himself, and everything else, out.

He shook his head and swallowed, reaching the rugby field and slowly stalking over to the benches, seemingly the first one out of the locker room in his hurry to flee from Wilkes. He sighed and sat down, putting down his things and looking up to spot Greg swaying over to him, one hand holding tightly to his water bottle, and the other twisting through his short, silver hair, dyed purposely that way a while back, its brown roots seeping through just a bit. 

John smiled a light smile, constrained in his still irritated state, and let out a long sigh, scoffing as Greg arched a brow, his expression curious but not invasive. 

“Wilkes pissed?” John asked, swallowing thickly as Greg sat beside him, leaning his elbows on his knees and hunching over. 

“Nah,” Lestrade scoffed, shrugging a shoulder and beaming at John, the upward curve of his mouth both comforting and warm, even in its small state, “he just thinks you’re in a pissy mood.”

John let out a sharp, annoyed laugh and nodded, glaring straight ahead and swallowing thickly, staring blankly at the dance department building as though willing it and the entire concept of dance to poof his troubles away. 

“Do you though?” Greg asked, drawing John attention once more.

“Do I what?” John swallowed, blinking at his friend curiously before going back to observing the same brick structure off in the distance, spotting the dance instructor slowly making her way to the staff parking lot, dainty and timid in her floral dress, a small purse tucked up to her side - John hated always being one of the last few people on campus.

Even the teachers went home before he did. 

“Have someone?” Greg finished, watching John intently. 

Glancing back over at the dance studio, blinds drawn across the windows, a small wooden door marking the entrance to the room, John hummed and let out a soft chuckle. 

“No, mate,” He sighed and shook his head, “you’d be the first to know if I did, alright?” 

That seemed to please Greg and he nodded, leaning down to fiddle with his rugby shoes as John continued to watch, to observe, a moment of suspicion dawning upon him as he narrowed his eyes.

“Hey Greg?” He uttered, voice tilted with eager curiosity. 

“Yeah?” His friend replied.

“Why are the lights in the studio still on if Ms. Hudson just left?”

Greg lifted his head to stare with John and shrugged, “Dunno. Maybe she forgot? I mean, she is _old_.”

In an instant, John sprung to his feet and took off, calling over his shoulder a quick, “I’ll be right back,” before jogging agilely towards the building. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock slowed and landed on his feet, chest heaving with exhaustion, mind at ease, fingers trembling just slightly as he caught his breath, moving to run a swift hand through his sweat soaked curls.

With a sigh of relief, glad to have another dance crossed off his infamous list, he crossed the studio floor, detached his camcorder, folded up his tripod, snatched up his phone, and grabbed for his duffle, reaching down to pull out his discarded shirt, wiping across his bare chest and face, before putting his things away.

He lifted the entire bag onto one pale shoulder and turned towards the back door, an _in-case-of-emergency_ exit that he really couldn't be bothered to use properly.

He was half way out, the cool air of the approaching winter tickling the skin under his thin black tights and chilling the line of his damp spine, when he heard the handle on the door to the studio’s main entrance jiggle and click open, a figure rushing through as though in a frenzy, and within a second of realization, Sherlock was flying fully from the room, grasping at his duffle and sprinting into the halls, hearing footsteps thumping against the wooden dance floor behind him and into the corridor.

In a moment of pure panic, he ducked inside a janitor’s closet, colliding with a dirty mop before spinning around and silently shutting the door behind him, holding his breath, body shaking with anxiousness.

Slowly, bravely, he peeked through the small crease between the custodian closet’s door and wall, watching and waiting only to gasp as a blonde rugby captain came into view, the boy’s chest heaving with exertion, a look of pure excitement and determination brewing in the depths of his features.

Shit. 

 

* * *

 

John grinned. He _was_ right. _Theballetbee_ goes to Baker. 

 


	8. Cirrhosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have coffee with me.”
> 
> Sherlock glanced back at the rugby captain then, eyes innocently wide, mouth hovering open just enough to decide which response he was going to attempt to make. 
> 
> “You don’t want cirrhosis, do you?” John added, smirking and finally taking a bite of the banana in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Finally, am I right?  
> Goodness me, forgive this lonely author for the wait, yes?  
> I am so glad and excited to be getting this out to you.  
> It is quite lengthy as well so hurray for that. x
> 
> A reminder that your reviews and comments are so incredibly important to me and I am absolutely touched by how much recognition this story has gotten so far! 
> 
> All the best to you all, and I hope you enjoy Cirrhosis. :)x
> 
> ...
> 
> Trigger warning: homophobic language (only brief)

He was in a small coffee shop near Baker when it happened. The cup of coffee in his hands - black, two sugars - was slammed against the table within a matter of seconds, and his hands were, instead, reaching for his mobile, fumbling aimlessly for his YouTube app and tapping its red, cubed layout. 

 _watsonmyface_ uploaded a new video: _A Personal Recommendation to the Entire Nation._

Sherlock scoffed at the name but hit play anyway, and halfway through the video - a small screen recording of John Watson looking warm and wonderful as ever, talking brightly into the lens - the dancer was nearly falling out of his chair, blood running cold with both shock and disbelief, eyes practically bulging from their sockets, jaw beginning to drop. 

_“What’s up everyone, my name is John Watson and this is what's on my face.”_

He was humorous and kind when he said it. Passionate and eager, yet calm and collected. Eyes their usual ocean blue, an oatmeal shaded sweater covering his light, London-tanned skin, and his lips pink and plush, a rosy hue where they caught between his teeth during deep thought. 

_“Now, ladies and gents, and everyone in between, you all know how I sometimes force my opinions on you. I did it with Doctor Who, I did it with James Bond, I did it with Queen and The Beatles and, hell, I’ve even tried to make you like rugby.”_

A small smirk, a witty grin, a hand through his hair, casual and unedited, naturally comforting, eyes glowing with mirth and teeth bared in amusement. 

_“But there’s something - someone, rather - I really need to share with you all.”_

And that’s when it happened, when Sherlock nearly spit out his coffee, when his pale, spindly fingers shook in both excitement and utmost incredulity, when John spoke the anonymous name of his channel and revealed, to all who looked up to him, just who he spent his free-time watching. 

_“Theballetbee.”_

Once he’d at least somewhat recovered, Sherlock tapped the comment section and lifted his thumbs to the keyboard. 

 

* * *

 

“I swear on my bloody life, Molls,” John chuckled into the speaker, holding his phone tightly to his ear and grabbing the practically weightless pizza box from his desk, rolling his eyes at the single piece left over from last night’s movie night - a movie night that included himself, junk food, and his most prized possession: his full boxset of Bond films. Harry and his mum had both been working - and he hadn’t been in the mood for company. 

“ _But_ ,” Molly’s mousy voice stuttered from the other end of the line, “ _seriously? Our dance studio? Baker’s dance studio?”_

John laughed and shook his head, sighing and lugging the old pizza box out into the kitchen, setting it down on the marble counter and heading for the refrigerator, “Yes, yes and yes.”

_“That’s insane!”_

“Bloody right it is,” John inhaled sharply and chewed on the side of his cheek, running a hand through his hair as he searched through the inner contents of their mostly empty fridge, “He’s been right under our nose this whole time.” 

Molly squeaked excitedly through the phone, and John could just picture her - sat criss-cross on her bed, colorful socks of some kind warming her feet, chestnut hair done-up in a messy bun, her baggy, bright sweater clad form practically buzzing with the thrill of it all. 

“ _You realize what this means, right?_ ” The high-pitched voice questioned from the small mobile in his hand, Molly’s smile practically audible in the tone of her words. 

John felt a grin stretch across his features as he shut the refrigerator door and settled instead for tea, clicking the switch to the kettle and watching as the water within began to boil and bubble, “What?” 

_“We are so much closer to finding out who he is!”_

John swallowed and looked down at the cup of tea he was preparing, dropping the spoon for a moment to think. Uncovering the identity of the incredibly talented, and highly anonymous, dancer, and composer, whom apparently attends Baker, was so very tempting - he wanted nothing more than to put a face to a name, to approach a being of insane ability and both thank him and marvel at him. And yet, at the same time, in the back of his mind, a small voice was nagging, a weary whimper commanding him not to mess with another’s functioning system - not to corrupt what already was, and would eventually be. There was a reason the dancer, this boy, chose to blur his face, and John should respect that. 

But he couldn’t.

“How do we go about it then?” John cleared his throat, brows furrowing as he curiously awaited Molly’s answer, simultaneously staring wistfully at the bubbling kettle. 

“ _We can always go back to the studio,_ ” Molly proposed, voice crackling as she spoke, hands, no doubt, moving animatedly. 

“I don’t know Molls,” John sighed, finally reaching for the pot of hot water and pouring it into his teacup, teabag floating aimlessly to the top and sugar instantly dissolving, “I may have spooked him. Just a bit.”

“ _Good point,_ ” She groaned, and John could hear shuffling on the other end as he added a gulp or two of milk to his mug, “ _he’ll probably be extra careful now.”_  

John nodded and blew at the surface of his tea, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he leaned back against the kitchen counter. The boy would, of course, be aware that someone was on to him. Wouldn’t he? Huffing to himself, John frowned and shook his head, taking a small, slow, gentle sip from his mug. The rugby captain had practically chased after him, in full rugby gear, cleats and all - of course the boy would go into a hiding of sorts. God, John had probably scared him _shitless_. Where the dancer had hidden himself or taken off to John would never know - what he did know was that he had been so close. A few seconds earlier, quicker, faster, sooner, and John would have come face to face with the man who serenaded his dreams. 

“ _Amazing shoutout by the way,_ ” Molly’s voice jolted him back to reality, and he instantly felt his cheeks reddening at her words.

“You think?” John smiled, setting down his tea to run a hand through his messy, dirty blonde hair, “Did I do him justice?”

Molly scoffed into the speaker, _“You said, and I quote, ‘a boy who can move like no one I’ve ever seen and compose like bloody Hans Zimmer himself.’ So yeah, I’d say you did.”_  

John couldn’t help but giggle at her reiteration, both happy with himself and embarrassed, smirking and placing a hand over his face to rub at his cheek, in a feeble attempt to rid it of its pink shade, “I didn’t go overboard?”

“ _You were honest_ ,” Molly sounded like she was grinning, and genuinely, “ _and you can never go wrong with honesty_.” 

“Thanks Molls,” John smiled at his friend’s words of wisdom and let out a long sigh, bobbing his head to himself as he took his tea and headed back towards his bedroom, biting his lip and pressing the phone tighter against his ear. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

_“Course! I’m your mate and ready to investigate.”_

John chuckled fondly, “Bye Lady Hooper.”

_“Farewell, Sir Watson.”_

With his lips still curved upward in mirth, John slipped his phone back into his pocket and strode into his room, placing his tea down beside his computer and fiddling with the mouse, watching as the screen illuminated instantly, his channel layout the first thing to pop up, along with several new notifications, all indicated by small, red spheres. 

He plopped down into his desk chair and scrolled slowly through the newly posted comments, one in particular turning him to stone, his vision blurring with excitement, his bones stiffening to freeze within the moment, his eyes widening with imminent elation. 

Fucking hell. A comment from the _Bee_ himself.

Molly’s words rang through his head. _Wonder if he watches you?_

 

* * *

 

A Personal Recommendation to the Entire Nation

456 views. 403 Likes, 0 Dislikes.

Video Description:

_Hey mates! Wanted to take a moment to make a video about another channel in particular that means quite a lot to me. A good friend of mine and I have been quite entranced by his work for a good while now, and we’ve been pretty damn dedicated to his content. Sorry for a bit of a different video today, but I like to share things about me and what I like with you lot, as you are practically a second family to me. Right, then._

_Cheerio humans!_

_John x_

 

_Twitter: watsonmyface_

_Instagram: watsonmyface_

 

**...**

 

Comments (134)…

 

_watsonhotson_ _: Amazing again, John! And looking fine as ever, of course. Can’t wait to see more of you. ;P_

_fangirl221b_ _: @watsonhotson Oh my god, could you be more obvious? Leave him alone, he has a girlfriend._

_watsonhotson_ _: @fangirl221b uh no he doesn’t, bloody fake fan_

_msshipshop_ _: @watsonhotson @fangirl221b isn’t he gay?_

 

_musicishappiness :_ _I’ve actually been subscribed to this dude for a while! He’s so talented! Glad to know you think the same. Thanks for sharing John!_

 

_pishposh33_ _: Didn’t know you were into this kind of thing John! Super enlightening. You need to share yourself with us more!  
_

 

_twentyonewatsons :_ _im in love_

 

_kittykittymeowmeow_ _: damn John! Thanks for the rec_

 

_septiplierlife45_ _: I swear to god, every time I get a vid notification from you I legit lock myself in my room so I can watch you and answer to no one until your vid is finished_

_watsondeck_ _: @septiplierlife45 okay but same ??? I’m actually obsessed_

_turnmywatson_ _: @septiplierlife45 @watsondeck okay yes, my question is why he doesn’t have a shit ton more subscribers?_

 

_bonkersforbee_ _: OMG I LOVE theballetbee!!! I’m freaking out right now ah_

 

_alltheyayforthegay_ _: is it bad that like I ship both of you?_

_waddledoddle_ _: @alltheyayforthegay NO BECAUSE HONESTLY ME TOO_

  _alltheyayforthegay_ _: @waddledoddle SO NOT JUST ME AH - they need a ship name tho?_

_waddledoddle_ _: @alltheyayforthegay for real! Like Watsbee or beeface!_

_alltheyayforthegay_ _: @waddledoddle oh my god beeface_

 

_theballetbee_ _: I’m glad to hear you find my work to your liking. Thank you, kindly. B_

_christiebee :_ _@theballetbee OH MY GOD_

_bonkersforbee_ _: @theballetbee my two fav youtubers talking? Yeah I’m totally fine, totally not screaming or anything!_

 

* * *

 

_“John?”_

“Molls, you won’t believe what just happened,” John practically squeaked, smiling wide against his mobile and staring directly at the fine print, sitting directly beneath his newest video.

“ _Something amazing, I’m guessing; seeing as its been five minutes since we last spoke,_ ” His best friend giggled through the speaker, high pitched and laced with anticipation. 

“He commented,” John stated, standing up from his desk and whirling around the room, chuckling with excitement and running a frazzled, frantic hand through his dirty blonde hair, “on my video.”

The shriek that followed his announcement was so loud he practically had to remove the phone from his ear, holding it back a few inches to wait out the scream, before bringing it nearer again, laughing loudly as he listened to Molly’s scrambling on the other end. 

“He _must_ watch me,” John shouted with glee, his eyes shifting back over to that one comment from that one user, bold letters staring right back at him on his computer screen, “He has to. That video hasn’t been up long.” 

Molly cried out again, mirth clear from the tone of her voice; he imagined she was on the floor of her bedroom, legs kicking and wiggling in mid air, chestnut hair sprawled out around her head. 

John smirked and shook his head in amusement, snickering into the mobile’s speaker, “Molls, you capable of words?” 

“ _Not right now_ ,” was the barely audible response. 

John grinned, “Alright, mate, take a moment to breathe, yeah?” 

He heard shuffling and assumed Molly was nodding, too overwhelmed to actually reply. With his wide smile still intact, John ended the call and returned to his computer, gazing at the words directed toward him with pure bliss; contact. Actual social contact. Molly had been commenting on the anonymous dancer’s videos since the beginning and yet he’d never respond - not once. Not even a simple, _‘thank you._ ’ Not to anyone. 

And now? 

John was convinced he was the only person to have ever made actual contact, in cyberspace, with _theballetbee_ , and that spun his mind unforgivingly, leaving him in a state of both shock and self-pride - he’d done it. Something about him was special - something about him intrigued the most talented man he’d ever bore witness to. The man of whom had somehow weaved his way into John’s every thought. A man that practically breathed wonder and mystery. 

A man, a stranger, John was going to find - regardless of whether he had to upturn Baker or not.

He glanced over at his phone, the device vibrating and portraying Molly’s caller ID, and smiled. 

Perhaps she’d do more than just scream this time. 

 

* * *

 

A Personal Recommendation to the Entire Nation

2,088 views. 1k Likes, 0 Dislikes.

 

* * *

 

_Channel: theballetbee_

_Subscribers: 6,786_

 

* * *

 

_What to eat, a nameless meat and some questionable looking beans, or an only slightly bruised banana._

 

Sherlock scoffed down at his phone, shaking his head and glancing up from his lonely lunch table, tucked away in his favorite corner, to see John standing in the line for food, his phone in hand as he waited on the students before him. 

 

_The latter seems the safer choice. -SH_

 

Sherlock had grown accustomed to receiving little texts from John. Sometimes they were consistent, based on the soundness of the topic at hand, and sometimes they were brief, simple four worded sentences or phrases made and sent simply, it seemed, to make Sherlock smile. It didn’t help to cease his ever growing crush, a crush that was beginning to swallow him whole, a crush that forced him into a blush every time John met his eyes with his own - that bloody ocean blue - or flashed him that short, crooked smile. It was starting to get out of hand and Sherlock was having difficulty shoving those stupid, unimportant feelings down, down, down until there was nothing left anymore but numbness. For some reason, the way he felt about John was refusing to vanish. 

 

_A valid assessment. Banana it is._

 

Sherlock shook his head and held back a grin, exiting his messages and scrolling, instead, through his YouTube notifications, rolling his eyes at the shrieking users commenting on his own post to John’s video, before stilling his thumb as he came across the response he had been hoping for. 

 

_@theballetbee You don’t need to thank me at all. I’d been meaning to make this video for a while. You deserve so much more attention for what you’re able to create. - Watson_

 

Blushing, much to his own embarrassment, Sherlock clicked reply, the keyboard popping up across his mobile screen, and began to formulate a response, his heart racing, teeth biting in to his bottom lip, fingers trembling just slightly as he tapped at the letters. John’s shoutout had, in fact, done wonders for him. He’d gained at least two thousand more subscribers in merely a day, and the very realization had thrown him from where he sat. He was climbing in views and likes, and comments were pouring in from users of all backgrounds. It was unbelievable. And all because of John Watson. 

 

_@watsonmyface I am truly, and infinitely, grateful. B_

 

Sherlock nodded his head in affirmation and hit ‘ _send_ ,’ sighing to himself and allowing his cold-faced features to break for a mere moment, giving way to a shy smile. Humble John. He didn’t realize the effect he had as a human being, as _watsonmyface_ \- people looked up to him, fancied him even, obsessed over him. And he’d gone and said he enjoyed, “ _theballetbee_.” 

 

_The arse in front of me took the last banana._

 

Sherlock scoffed and glanced over at the tray of food he’d bothered to acquire earlier, for no specific reason other than the fact that he’d been rather parched. He’d left all the edible bits he’d been required to get as well on their rightful plates, practically turning up his nose at their disgusting consistencies and unnatural coloring. But, there on his tray, sat a banana, and Sherlock quite obviously saw it as an opportunity. 

 

_You can have mine. -SH_

 

Perhaps John would join him like he had the last few days. He’d like that. No. What was he saying? No, he’d despise that, John should stay away, John should ignore him, toss him aside like Sebastian Wilkes loved doing, kick him to the metaphorical curb. He really should, then Sherlock could replace his stupid, little crush to feelings of resentment and loathing. 

 

_Was that some sort of sexual innuendo Sherlock Holmes?_

 

Sherlock froze, and then, almost instantly, turned a bright, tomato red. 

 

_Don’t be an immature moron. I just mean I have one here should you like it. -SH_

 

Rereading the message he’d regrettably just sent, Sherlock blushed harder. 

 

_I’ll keep the offer in mind._

 

Sherlock was suddenly whiter than white, the red dissolving to a pale, deep set anxiousness, his gut twisting in both nervousness and inner emotional turmoil. Because, no. It couldn’t be. John couldn’t possibly be…flirting, could he? No. No, of course not. And if he brought his hopes up as a result of it and found out the very concept of it was an impossibility, a mere joke on the rugby captain’s part, he’d surely shrivel up into a ball of pure embarrassment and self-loathing. 

 

_Kidding. ;) Be over there in a minute._

 

Of course. What did Sherlock expect? John was a straight male - a straight male of whom most of the girls in this school fancied, of whom played rugby, of whom had friends that called Sherlock a fag for his preferences, of whom remained quite open with those he knew. This was a normal thing for John - teasing, joking, jesting. It was not flirting. Not that Sherlock had the slightest inch of knowledge on the specifics of flirtation anyway.

The slamming of a lunch tray, minus a banana, atop his table sent him jolting upwards in shock, his head flying to meet the eyes of a rather amused looking John Watson, his dark blonde hair practically shining in the fluorescent light, his eyes as oceanic as ever, and his lips plush and pink from where his tongue had been coursing over them constantly throughout the day, a habit of John’s. 

“Do you realize,” John had began, reaching over the table’s surface to steal the yellow fruit from his tray, and Sherlock blinked, shaking his head into a processing format once more in order to keep up with John’s words, “how important our livers are? They break down fats, produce energy, play a key role in creating important proteins, I could go on and on.”

Sherlock blinked.

“So, get this,” he continued, “Coffee can actually prevent cirrhosis of the liver. You know cirrhosis, yeah? Bad stuff, nasty stuff. Basically chronic liver damage, which, in turn, leads to liver failure.”

Bobbing his head slightly, half of him taking in John’s liver lecture, the other half confused beyond what he’s used to, Sherlock stared blankly, frowning, while he carried on with his rambling. 

“So,” John smiled wide, leaning back in his chair and beginning to peel the banana in his hands, dutifully distracting Sherlock, “clearly it is important to drink coffee, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Right, so I think you and I should get coffee after school together. You know, save our livers and all.” 

Trying desperately to hold back a wide grin, and a thick blush, Sherlock turned away from John, staring wide-eyed down at his phone and ignoring his desire to chuckle. John was a marvel, that’s for sure. But Sherlock couldn't. No. The texting outside of their classes, when Sherlock was home or in the studio, was bad enough as it was - there was no way Sherlock needed to spend more time with John. There was no way Sherlock needed to get to know John better, or become John’s friend, or learn about John, or stare at John while he sipped coffee in the small diner down the block. No need. He wanted to, yes. But unless he wants the flames of his inner crush to completely burn him alive, he had to stop this - he had to refuse. 

Sherlock swallowed and cleared his throat, “I can’t.”

John didn’t look convinced, “Why not?”

“The usual,” Sherlock pressed, trying his best to hide his reluctance, “Homework, chores.” 

John arched a brow, “Sherlock.” 

“That Romeo and Juliet essay. Haven’t even started that,” Sherlock uttered, looking away from John and around at the different students making up the busy, loud cafeteria. 

“Sherlock.”

“Need to mop the floors.”

“Sherlock!” John practically shouted, wide grin still present on his face as he stared at Sherlock with an expression of incredulity, and utter amusement. 

“What?” Sherlock murmured, the single word nearly a whisper as he shyly refused to meet John’s eye.

“Have coffee with me.”

Sherlock glanced back at the rugby captain then, eyes innocently wide, mouth hovering open just enough to decide which response he was going to attempt to make. 

“You don’t want cirrhosis, do you?” John added, smirking and finally taking a bite of the banana in his hand. 

Sherlock watched, swallowed, shut his eyes for a moment and then let out a long-suffering sigh, mind yelling at his heart for the next word that exited his mouth. 

 

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

Comments (405)…

 

_theballetbee_ _: I’m glad to hear you find my work to your liking. Thank you, kindly. B_

_watsonmyface_ _: @theballetbee You don’t need to thank me at all. I’d been meaning to make this video for a while. You deserve so much more attention for what you’re able to create. - Watson_

_theballetbee_ _: @watsonmyface I am truly, and infinitely, grateful. B_

_watsonmyface_ _: @theballetbee My pleasure. :) - Watson_

 

_christiebee :_ _@theballetbee OH MY GOD_

_bonkersforbee_ _: @theballetbee my two fav youtubers talking? Yeah I’m totally fine, totally not screaming or anything!_

_beefaceshipper :_ _@theballetbee @watsonmyface okay I’ve already made this my otp excuse me?_

_watsonthemenu_ _: @theballetbee @watsonmyface @beefaceshipper yeah uh same oops_

_gaysfordays :_ _@theballetbee @watsonmyface AH CAN WE GET A COLLAB_

_balletfeverbee_ _: @theballetbee @watsonmyface @gaysfordays he’s an anonymous youtuber, how the fuck is that gonna work_

 

_watsgoingon_ _: why wasn’t I born in england_

_memelordwatsonfan_ : _@watsgoingon I guess england is just not your city_

_watsgoingon_ _: @memelordwatsonfan if I ever meet you, I will kill you_

 

_holywatsonoly_ _: I need more beeface content_

 

* * *

 

With a joyful skip in his gait, John quickly made his way out of Baker’s main entrance, pushing the two rather gigantic doors open and leaping down the steps. Somehow he’d managed to get Sherlock Holmes, the one and only, to an outing. Part of him hoped, deep down, that Sherlock was beginning to trust him, that his cool exterior, that mask he put on everyday, would soon drop and reveal the true, scared but incredible, genius behind it. This was clearly a step forward - he’d buy the boy a coffee, chat with him, learn things, truly to get to know the dark, curly-haired boy who hid in the only corner lunch table, and be sure he was aware that John considered him a friend. Because John truly did - Sherlock was more of a friend than any of his other mates, the idiots that had somehow wormed their way into his life and only stuck around to insult others, pester, and brag. But he did need Molly, he did need Greg, and now, he was beginning to think he needed Sherlock too. 

He took the corner, heading towards the student parking lot and in the direction of his parked car, the silver Toyota awaiting him almost expectantly, when his phone buzzed obnoxiously in his back pocket. He reached back and slipped it out, reading the message portrayed across its screen. 

 

_Your car is hideous. -SH_

 

John snorted and glanced up, spotting the curly-haired mop of hair just over the top of the old, roughed-up vehicle and rounding its scratched and slightly dented frame to reveal the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes, leaning back against the car’s window in his Converse, skinny jeans and tight-fitting, white button-down.  

John felt his lips quirk into a warm smile and he quickly chuckled, approaching the brunette and giving his mum’s old car a pat on its hood, “Oi, it runs, and that’s what matters.” 

Sherlock jolted a bit in surprise before turning to fully face John and smirking a bit, stance shy and timid, eyes drifting to the silver metal block on wheels and back to John, as though thinking of a way to respond. John spared him the worry. 

“But you’re right,” the rugby captain practically giggled, flashing Sherlock his car keys before slipping them back into his pocket, “That’s why we’re walking.”

He watched as Sherlock let out a soft huff of amused air, his eyes brightening just slightly, his expression softening and his lips, pink and sculpted to perfection, lifting. John took pride in making the boy laugh; his skinny figure, those ethereal features, rising to display merely the smallest look of emotional bliss, but a look of emotional bliss all the same. 

“Ready?” He grinned.

Sherlock scoffed, “To save my liver?” 

John ran a hand through his blonde hair and shot the boy a pleased nod, “Yep.” 

“More or less”

With a flick of his head, John gestured to the street's sidewalk, smiling encouragingly and observing the way Sherlock tightened his grip on his backpack - just his backpack, duffle bag missing today - and followed quickly until he was right beside John. 

They strolled along the pavement and away from Baker, the small coffee shop only a mere few minutes ahead of them, in silence - not quite awkward, but not quite entirely comfortable either. John glanced over at the boy, watching the way each curl bounced with every step he took, the way those unreal eyes fixated on the ground before him, the way he let one long arm lay at his side, swaying slightly, the other attached to his schoolbag’s strap. He took note of his features, pointed nose, sharp cheekbones, the fading bruise below one of his dark brows, his thin arms, slender fingers, long legs. 

John thought he was a masterpiece of odd parts. 

“So,” He cleared his throat, eager to strike up a conversation and stray from the silence. 

“If you start talking about the weather, I’m turning around,” Sherlock quipped, one eyebrow lifted in suspicion as he gazed sharply and sideways at John, the corners of his mouth downturned.

John couldn’t help but let out a rather loud laugh, shaking his head and beaming at the boy beside him, “No, I was going to ask about you, actually.” 

The brunette scoffed bitterly, “What about me?”

“Who is the great _Sherlock Holmes_?”

“How would I know.” 

John giggled, grinning at his response before glaring his way, playfully, and with a slight teasing quirk as his eyes crinkled in mirth, “No, come on. No evading.” 

“Simplify the question,” Sherlock stated, finally meeting John’s eyes, very clearly just as amused by the conversation as John was. 

“Fine,” John laughed, “Any hobbies?”

He watched as Sherlock snickered, shaking his head at John’s question, and causing the rugby captain to redden in humorous embarrassment. He blushed and looked down, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Oi, don’t judge.” 

“I like chemistry.” 

John hummed, intrigued, “What kind?”

“Chemical reactions, cause and effect; that sort,” He muttered, pushing back a stray curl from where it sat atop his pale forehead.

“So, you tend to blow stuff up occasionally I’m assuming?

“It’s one of the perks,” Sherlock smirked.

John smiled and nodded his head, understanding why it might be, before glancing back down at the ground and scoffing thoughtfully - pleased to steadily be learning more and more about the mysterious boy. 

“And,” Sherlock swallowed, grunting a bit to clear his throat before turning just slightly towards John, body language curious and open, expression soft but still somewhat tense, “And you?”

John looked up instantly, a grin practically plastered to his face at this point, and let out a soft laugh, “Besides YouTube, you mean?” 

Sherlock nodded. 

Shrugging, John beamed back at the boy, “I read a lot. Mostly about different medicines, diseases, the like.” 

“Morbid.”

“I guess. I just like it, I dunno.” 

“You want to be a doctor,” Sherlock added, eyes fixated on the blonde now, as though trying to see right through him, the mix of colors nearly enchanting as they bore into John’s own. 

John blinked before chuckling gently, one brow arched in curiosity, “Yeah, how’d you know?”

Lifting his shoulders effortlessly, Sherlock glanced back down at the ground, as though ashamed or far too shy to answer whilst meeting John’s gaze, “It’s obvious.”

“Obvious?”

“Messy handwriting, chicken scratch, honestly. The obsessive hand-washing,” Sherlock looked away wearily, watching the people ahead of them as they continued to stroll down the pavement, “the different face you make when someone sneezes, or coughs, or blows their nose.” 

John’s eyes widened in bewilderment and he stared blankly at the boy beside him.

“The obvious concern you show for injuries,” Sherlock uttered, rolling his eyes and pointing weakly to the fading, green and yellow, bruise beneath his brow. 

With a shake of his head, John let out a quick laugh and beamed at the brunette, expression bright with amazement, practically consumed with Sherlock’s quick thinking, his ability to notice the littlest of details and recognize that they certainly must mean something if they even exist at all. 

“You watch me that much then?” He mused, lips tilting upwards slyly.

He admired the way Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes somewhat wide, cheeks faintly pink, before he ducked his head with apprehension. The rugby captain smirked to himself, thinking he quite liked Sherlock in that color, before humming and glancing back at the lanky boy, curiosity in the twist of his features as they walked on. 

“That’s part of your whole deduction thing, isn’t it?” John asked, gazing forwards and spotting the coffee shop just up ahead.

“Deduction thing?” Sherlock repeated, mindlessly adjusting the cuffs of his white button-down.

“Yeah, where you look at people and take them apart?”

Sherlock scoffed to himself, rolling his eyes and looking at the sky for a moment as if hoping someone would spare him, “Is that how people describe it?”

John laughed and shrugged, his head teetering back and forth as he graced Sherlock with somewhat of a nod, “More or less.” 

The skinny brunette smiled as he walked, eyeing the ground with sudden interest, cheeks darkening a bit as he explained, “I look at others and deduce them. It’s all in the details, even the smallest of them; simply logical conclusions based on noticeably indicated information.”

“Oh, you’ve got to show me that,” John mused excitedly, turning to grin at Sherlock, and, seemingly, taking him by surprise, the darker-haired boy’s face softening in bewilderment, as though he’d expected John to, instead, call him a liar - or worse: a _freak_.

After a moment of blank staring, the brunette cleared his throat and looked away from John, eyes darting over each and every person before him, those exiting the coffee shop up ahead, those lugging about bags and briefcases, those sitting behind the glass windows of cabs and other cars - and just when John was about to broach another subject in fear of reaching an awkward silence, Sherlock spoke, voice confident, deep baritone laced with anticipation, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, head flicking towards a certain human being ahead of them. 

“See that man?”

“Which?” John frowned.

“The elderly one, sitting atop the bench, feeding the pigeons.” 

“Oh. Yeah, what about him?” 

“He’s a widowed gardener, suffering from the recent commencement of his Alzheimers,” Sherlock stated, loud and clear, and began walking once more, head held high, a smirk tugging at one corner of his lips. 

“Hang on,” John practically gasped, head whirling from the old man and back to Sherlock within an instant, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed, “How—“

“Look at his neck. He has what looks like a wedding ring on a chain, no longer on anyone’s finger — now, _sure_ , he could just be _sentimental_ , perhaps it’s his mother’s, but he’s clearly in his seventies, and,” Sherlock inhaled and lifted his arm to point discretely forwards, “if you watch his hands, he has a habit of running a single finger over where his ring should be. So, recently widowed then.” 

John blinked.

“And then we have his Alzheimers, also recent as he clearly still remembers whom he lost,” Sherlock glanced once at John before continuing, “Notice how he feeds the birds. His natural instinct is to feed the ones on the left and then the ones on the right, as he’s been doing, but occasionally, he falls out of pattern, throwing crumbs to one side, forgetting he’d done so, and throwing more, once again, in the same place.”

“Gardener?” John practically squeaked. 

“Dirt under his nails, at the bottom of his boots, and the book hanging out of his bag. It clearly reads, _‘The Vegetable Gardener’s Bible_.’ Simple, really.” 

The rugby captain squinted, spotting the book in his bag as they neared closer, and swallowing the thick knot in his throat, amazement and disbelief swarming in his gut to form some sort of overwhelming sense of renowned affection for the genius now striding forwards and opening the door to the coffee shop’s entrance.

This boy was a regular Einstein. 

“Holy shit,” He exclaimed with a wide smile, much to the disapproval of a passing elderly woman. 

Sherlock glanced over at him, cheeks red as the two of them joined the line for coffee, his hands now behind his back, his posture straight and narrow, tense and a bit uncertain as John stared directly at him, mind whirling with the need to praise Sherlock for the wonder he’d just performed. 

“That was,” John scoffed to himself and blinked in an utter loss for words, “just — _incredible_.” 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, swallowing and gazing directly ahead at the shop’s menu, blank expression masking the joy thumping in his chest, right next to the beating of his nervous heart, “That’s not what people normally say.” 

“What do people normally say?” 

“Piss off.”

John let a giggle loose, and grinned up at the tall brunette, eyes bright with admiration, before he turned away, smile still in place, glancing up at the beverage board, the line to make their order moving them forwards a mere inch whilst John pondered what to say next.

“Really though,” He began, “Bloody _amazing_ , Sherlock.”

He watched as the boy dropped his head, looking away, most likely to hide pink cheeks, his fingers fumbling aimlessly with one hanging strap of his backpack — John thought he was the only person he knew who could go from overconfident to entirely insecure in a span of two minutes. 

“You should be a private investigator or something,” John added with a smile as the line they stood in continued to shorten, customers passing the two of them with hot coffees in their hands. 

The skinny genius’s head shot up at that, and he stared wide-eyed at John, features downturned, repulsion lining every inch of his expression, “Absolutely not.”

Scoffing in amusement, John frowned, “How come?”

“Much too pressing,” Sherlock sniffed, “I’d gladly aid the police, God knows they need it, but I won’t be anyone’s problem solver. I’d take cases only if I found them interesting.” 

“So,” John began, tone tilted thoughtfully in pitch, “a picky private detective, whom sometimes helps out Scotland Yard, but only if he deems it worthy of his time?” 

The dark-haired boy beside him smirked, “More like a consultant, of sorts.” 

“A consulting detective?” John offered, stepping forwards in time with the other patient customers. 

“Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” 

The two of them laughed softly, ducking their heads as their cheeks reddened with mirth, the bliss of merely spending a few minutes of their time with each other brightening their features and tugging at the corners of their lips. When they finally reached the counter, John turned to the now silent brunette beside him and shot the boy a warm look, eyes soft and beam gentle.

“What do you want?” 

Sherlock looked at him, scoffed shyly and shook his head, “I’m more than capable of buying my own coffee.” 

“Oi,” John snorted back, putting forth a playful glare as he watched the curly-haired boy fidget with his back pocket, clearly aiming to remove his wallet, “My invite, my money, yeah?” 

Sherlock merely blinked blankly his way and nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, eyes darting nervously back and forth as though searching for something to land on.

“Fine,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “Black, two sugars.” 

With a nod, John turned towards the cashier, smiling wide and kindly before glancing at Sherlock and winking, “Go grab a seat, would you?” 

 

* * *

 

_Channel: theballetbee_

_Subscribers: 7,890_

 

* * *

 

Comments (645)…

 

_isthisthereallife_ _: I really want the bee to show his face_

_buzzbuzzwatsbee_ _: @isthisthereallife lay off man! He wants to be anonymous, respect that!_

_isthisthereallife_ _: @buzzbuzzwatsbee calm your shit bro, I’m just saying. I wish we knew what he looked like and all, plus I want a collab in the near future_

_buzzbuzzwatsbee_ _: @isthisthereallife what kind of collab? Unless John can dance but he’s told us before he’s uncoordinated_

_isthisthereallife_ _: @buzzbuzzwatsbee uh imagine how fucking cool it’d be if he had the Bee in one of his videos/vlogs??? Look man stop getting so damn defensive, I’m a huge fan of both these channels and I just would love merged content._

_littledinobee_ _: @isthisthereallife or is this just fantasy?_

 

_allylovesjohn_ _: @theballetbee get a twitter!_

_maggiepie_ _: @allylovesjohn ah yes! He really needs to get one, imagine the tweets between these two!_

_holywatsonoly_ _: @allylovesjohn @maggiepie honestly I need this to happen if I am required to keep living._

 

* * *

 

_Channel: watsonmyface_

_Subscribers: 13,097_

 

* * *

 

Is this what it’s like? Is this how a normal outing goes with someone you know? Is this _“hanging out”_? Sherlock had no bloody clue but he was, though he loathed to admit it, enjoying himself. John was buying him coffee, John was laughing with him, John was talking to him. Really talking. Proper talking. And shit if it was doing any good to help Sherlock repress the so-called, “little crush” he had on John Watson. It was ghastly. Every time John smiled, Sherlock’s heart fluttered; every time John giggled Sherlock’s mind went blank, the entirety of his focus trained on the adorable noise bubbling out from John’s lips. It was unhealthy, surely, to have become this fixated on a person that he both thought of John constantly when they were together and constantly when they were apart — even more so. It wasn’t right — Sherlock needed to get out. _Caring is not an advantage, sentiment is a chemical defect_. In the end, this silly infatuation would simply, for lack of a gentler term, “fuck him _over_.” 

“You owe me one now,” John announced as he sat down across from Sherlock, placing the rightful coffee in front of him and practically grinning from ear to ear. 

Sherlock swallowed and looked up, taking his coffee cup and placing it between his hands, warming his nervous fingers as he felt a smirk tug at his lips. _Stop it, no. Don’t smile. Don’t enjoy this._

“Why’s that?” Sherlock asked, and took a careful sip, ignoring the burn to his bottom lip. 

“I just saved you from cirrhosis.”

Sherlock couldn’t contain the slight chuckle that slipped through, and he quickly brought a hand to his mouth, attempting to block out the wide smile that threatened to break his features as he listened to John’s own giggle emanate throughout the rest of the surrounding noise. When their amusement faded and silence took over, Sherlock mentally kicked himself, taking a deep breath and sitting up straighter in his seat at the small coffee shop booth. 

“So,” He muttered softly, and slowly met John’s eyes.

“If you start on about the weather, I’m leaving,” John reiterated, wide smirk still present as he watched Sherlock, his eyes bright and warm over the rim of his own coffee cup. 

Sherlock scoffed lightly before shaking his head and finally making direct contact with those ocean blue orbs, “I was going to ask _why_ Youtube.” 

The entirety of John’s expression lit up and he quirked a small smile, biting his lip in thought before granting Sherlock a soft shrug and letting out a short huff of amused air, “I always envied those people who managed to get up on a stage, make others smile, and laugh, effortlessly, comfortable with being the center of attention.”

Sherlock nodded to show his interest, eyes narrowed as John spoke, mind focused on nothing but the short, dirty-blonde rugby captain sitting across from him. 

“It’s not something I like, you know,” John laughed softly, and somewhat shyly, “everyone’s eyes on me, everyone listening. But making videos is something else entirely. It’s like being on that stage with no one in the seats watching you.” 

Sherlock, of course, knew how he felt, knew what he meant — obviously, he couldn’t admit to that. But that feeling, knowing that you’re going to reach the eyes of so many without having to _actually_ look into their eyes was — well — amazing. It was a sensation of importance, a sensation that gave you a notion of control — that you were touching people without them being physically there. 

“Gives me a chance to entertain and perform without being in front of a live audience,” John chuckled and looked up at Sherlock, smirk back on his face as he leaned his head down a bit to take a sip of his coffee, right after adding, “And it’s bloody good fun.”

Before Sherlock could stop himself, he stated, loudly and quite clearly, “You do it well.” 

Cheeks pink and eyes wide, he dropped his gaze and nervously reached for his coffee, taking a few sips and glancing away from the boy across from him — but, because John was John, he found himself looking right back after a mere five seconds, only to see the blonde positively beaming his way, a bit of snark in his smile, and that ever-present gentleness drowning those blue eyes. 

“You sure I’m not just,” John put on a posh tone, “ _satisfactory_?” 

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock sneered playfully at John before looking away to avoid blushing yet again, much to his own distasteful embarrassment. He grabbed for his cup and took a cooler sip, reveling in the sharp bitterness coffee had to offer and the tangy sweetness of those two invaluable spoons of sugar. 

“Hey, Sherlock?”

“Hm?” 

“I have two more questions.” 

Sherlock let out a soft chuckle and arched a brow, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment before gesturing John onwards with a flick of his chin, “Go on then.” 

“What’s your favorite color?” John asked, voice tinged with intrigue, expression open and sincere, practically childish when matched up to the depth of his question.

“Now you’ve taken it too far,” Sherlock teased which only provoked that adorably high-pitched giggle out of John’s plush lips, Sherlock’s heart fluttering near frantically, like the wings of a lost hummingbird, erratic and endless. 

“No, seriously, come on,” John pushed with a wide smile. 

“I like canary yellow,” Sherlock admitted, leaning back a bit in his chair, eyes fixed on John, watching as he let out another soft giggle and nodded in response to Sherlock’s answer. 

“Bit unexpected,” He scoffed in amusement, “Never pegged you as a yellow kind of fellow.”

Sherlock merely shrugged and cleared his throat, “Question number two?”

At that, John’s smile seemed to falter, the ends of his mouth turning downwards shakily, his eyes dropping to the table where his coffee sat, currently untouched. _Right, bit not good that._ Sherlock swallowed and glanced around the shop in pure discomfort. Had he done something wrong? Had he upset John? Course, of _course_ he did. Why did he think he could do this? This acquaintance thing, this “ _hanging out together_ ” thing? He was an idiot, a bloody moron, a right —

 

“I was wondering if you’d come to my rugby match, tomorrow night.” 

 

John’s voice forming those words, enclosing that sentence, was entirely unanticipated. And clearly, it showed on Sherlock’s face — his eyes blinking blankly and repeatedly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed the knot in his throat, his shoulders tense in his entirely upright position. 

Question number two was most definitely intriguing. 

“That probably sounds bloody odd,” John chuckled in a sort of shameful manner — was he _blushing_? — and looked away from Sherlock to take a deep breath, eyes narrowed as though he were attempting to find the right words. “I just, I don’t know, wanted to invite you.” 

Sherlock cleared the frog from his throat, blinked away the initial shock of John’s question, hunched a bit in his seat and then glanced over at the blonde warily, “Why?”

John shrugged, the motion weak and somewhat small, “Dunno. Because you’re my friend?” 

Friend? _Friend?_ Shit, shit, shit. What was Sherlock doing, why was he allowing this to happen? For god’s sake, he couldn’t be friends with John, of course he couldn’t. Not John the charismatic YouTuber with the perfect smile, not John the boy all the girls at Baker practically drooled over, not John the captain of the rugby team, not John the blonde sitting across from him in the currently peaceful atmosphere of a little coffee shop five minutes from their school. 

Not John. Not _this_ John. 

And he wanted to tell him so, storm out of the cafe without so much of an explanation, stand where he sat and yell how about how much of an idiot John was for thinking him friend material, shout and kick and shriek about how, in the end, John would leave — just like everyone else did. Just like his mother did when he was born, just like his father did when that Lorry came out of nowhere, just like Mycroft did when he found there was nothing worth staying in London for anymore. 

But he _couldn't_. He couldn’t say any of those things because John was _smiling_. John was smiling, at _him_ ,  warm and soft and kind, and Sherlock could not even bring himself to open his mouth. Instead, he just stared, bewildered by this strange human being who so abruptly and so distinctly impacted his life in such a short period of time. 

Why the hell was John Watson so bloody _special_? 

 

“Look, it’s just an offer, you know?” The rugby captain shrugged again, and let out a soft laugh, “You can always decline, but if you do come out, maybe we could hang after?” 

Sherlock swallowed and without so much of a thought in advance — his idiotic, impulsive, pathetic self — nodded his head. But he had made John smile again — and _that_ was important. 

“You’ll think about it then?” 

Willing his brain to gain some self-control, he cleared his throat and, with a quick gesture of one shrugged shoulder, uttered, “I’ll think about it.”

 

* * *

 

A Personal Recommendation to the Entire Nation

10,768 views. 8k Likes, 3 Dislikes.

 

* * *

 

It was when the two of them parted ways, coffee cups in hand, that Sherlock came to his deep, and unsettling, self-revelation.

It wasn’t a crush — it wasn’t a simple infatuation.

A crush wasn’t enough to explain watching the same videos of the same person over and over and over again nearly everyday; a crush wasn’t enough to explain staring at the back of the same person’s head in Literature class for hours on end; a crush wasn’t enough to explain the swell in his heart every time he thought of those enchanting oceans; a crush wasn’t enough to explain the way he wanted to divulge each and every secret he kept dear to the same person, of whom he’d hardly had the guts to speak to until recently; a crush wasn’t enough to explain _this_.

 _This_ was more — _this_ was the one thing he’d never asked for, the one thing he never wanted again, after his father, after Mycroft.

And worst of all, _this_ was something that wouldn’t go away without something breaking, something shattering, something hurting.

Because fucking _hell_ , he was madly in love with John Watson.


	9. Masterpiece of Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” John breathed softly, inching a bit closer to him and nodding his head carefully, comfortingly, “Relax. It’s okay, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! A bit of an angsty one lovely readers.  
> I hope you enjoy, and as always I love reading your comments.  
> Thank you for the support thus far!
> 
> TW: homophobic language, bullying, violence, etc.  
> Heed my tags! x

 

_theballetbee uploaded a new video: Composition #44 - Blue_

 

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John scooted Molly’s pink sofa chair closer to the bed, sprawled back and put his feet up, grabbing for his tea and sipping slowly as Molly stood by her small, wooden easel, fingers covered in a rainbow of different colored paint as they gripped tight to one of her blue paintbrushes. Science was her obsession, but painting was certainly her biggest hobby — strictly cats and flowers though. It seemed those were her only muses, much to John’s admiration — she was quite the adorable human being. 

“I take it it went well then?” She questioned, her back turned to John and her chestnut hair done up in a tight bun. John could practically hear the smirk in her voice. He lifted his head from staring at the lessening contents of his mug, and gazed gently at her. 

“What went well?”

“Your date,” Molly giggled, her brush swooping and smearing a glob of pink paint across her canvas. 

John snorted and shook his head, setting his cup back on Molly’s desk, eyes glaring playfully at his best friend’s back, and reaching into his back pocket for his phone, opening Twitter to lazily scrolling through his feed, “It was definitely not a date.” 

“I don’t know,” She mused, a tilt in her tone that signified utter mischief, “You took a walk together, talked, bonded —  you even bought him his coffee.”

John swallowed nervously, feeling his cheeks redden as he pretended to focus more-so on his phone than the conversation at hand, Molly’s eyes turned to him now and paintbrush unmoving in her hand, “I just did that to be nice.” 

Molly made a skeptical, throaty noise and went back to her painting, though she still remained slightly tilted toward him, as though she weren’t completely finished with her good-natured accusations. 

“Did you have fun?”

John glanced up at her, eyes narrowed as he watched her strangely innocent movements, the soft, harmless tone of her voice as she asked her _not-suspicious-at-all_ question. 

“Yeah,” He smiled softly, genuinely, because he certainly couldn’t deny the fact that: _yes_ , he certainly had.

“Good,” She cleared her throat and stopped painting, “Did Sherlock?”

John nodded his head, bit his lip and laughed softly, “Yeah, I mean, I think so. He was a bit shy but he didn’t seem unhappy.” 

He’d hoped Sherlock had enjoyed himself. He had hoped, when they’d parted ways earlier that day, that he hadn’t scared the boy away — he knew Sherlock was going to be a hard mystery to crack, a hard person to truly get to know, but, to John, he was entirely, and utterly worth it. He was, to be frank, _brilliant_. 

“Wonderful!” She squeaked, put down her paintbrush and skipped over to John, standing before his position in her chair and grinning from ear to ear, much to John’s impending horror. In one smooth movement, she took both his cheeks in her hands and giggled, teeth bared and eyes wide, “You know what that means then?” 

“What?” John mumbled fearfully as his cheeks where squished together, his voice coming out muffled and utterly ridiculous, his lips puckered like that of a fish. 

“You might just get a second date.” 

 

* * *

 

Blue

200 views. 167 Likes, 0 Dislikes.

Video Description:

_Inspired by the ocean. -B_

 

 

Comments (134)…

 

 

_bonkersforbee_ _: Another masterpiece from my favorite virtuoso._

_christiebee_ _: the fact that I’m so attracted to you based on your music alone scares me sometimes._

_watsonmyface_ _: There’s just no limit to your talent is there? I could listen to this for hours. -Watson_

> _gaysfordays_ _: @watsonmyface shit im dying_
> 
> _beefaceshipper_ _: @watsonmyface pls keep commenting on his videos, this is just more content for my tumblr_
> 
> _watsonthemenu_ _: @watsonmyface oh look there goes my otp being fucking CUTE_
> 
> _holywatsonoly_ _: @watsonmyface I’m crying_

_Buzzbuzzboom_ _: amazing as always Bee!_

 

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes had a problem. A big problem — a great big, inconvenient problem that threatened the entirety of his existence and the already fragile construction of his heart, no matter how small the organ may be. This “more than a crush” was beginning to cloud each and every mere thought that took to occupying his mind. He spent the night, after the little outing that sparked his realization, lying in bed, biting his bottom lip, and debating between whether or not attending the rugby match — John’s rugby match — was a good idea. Of course, it wasn't. God, no. It was a horrible idea. Everyone who could possibly hate him would be there — the rugby team _obviously_ , that group of blonde girls from his chemistry class, _Anderson_ — and not to mention the obnoxious parents, cheering when their children scored, berating the team when they didn’t, whilst shoving sandwiches down their throats and gulping entire sodas. But, all the flaws of attending set aside, John would be there. 

And that’s precisely why he had spent the night scolding himself. He was putting John above all the dreadful negatives — he was allowing himself to fall weak, to fall prey, to fall vulnerable to _John bloody Watson_ , popular rugby captain, golden boy and part-time YouTuber. 

He was everywhere. Sherlock had gotten home, strode past his uncle — thankfully dead to the world with his eyes shut on the living room sofa — and gone straight up to his room, only to have his thoughts vandalized, bombarded, harassed. He looked at his chemistry set and thought of John, that bright smile, those warm cheeks, joking with him, grinning at him, being _kind_ to him, _listening_. 

_“So, you tend to blow stuff up occasionally I’m assuming?_

He looked at his bare walls and imagined John playfully teasing him for the simplicity of his entire room; he looked at his small, black chair and wanted John to be sitting in it, saw his _“Historical Serial Killers,”_ book collection on the shelf near his desk and wanted John to be looking at it, admiring it. He even saw his bed and, much to his utter shame and red cheeks, wanted John to be lying across it, lying beside him, lying _with_ him, lying _atop_ him. 

For fuck’s sake, Sherlock Holmes. Get it together. 

It couldn’t be helped, it couldn’t be stopped. He’d sat, gone to his mind palace, told his bloody heart to shut its trap and allow him to _work_ , but the effort had been futile. John was there, John was here, John was every bloody where and it was driving Sherlock insane. 

And yet, he’d grabbed his mobile, taken a deep breath, and formulated a message. 

 

_I’ll be there. -SH_

 

* * *

 

Blue

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_watsonmyface_ _: There’s just no limit to your talent is there? I could listen to this for hours. -Watson_

> _theballetbee_ _: @watsonmyface I’m entirely glad to hear it. -B_

 

 

* * *

 

The night of the rugby match had John’s stomach fluttering, the butterflies inside present for all the wrong reasons, wings flapping against his insides, buzzing in his gut, throwing his every movement out of proper control. Because he wasn’t nervous about the game — hell, he’d played enough to last him a lifetime. No — he was nervous because Sherlock would be watching. How that made any sense, he didn’t know. Molly came to watch him nearly every game and he had never been close to vomiting over knowing her eyes would be on him. 

Deep down he knew Sherlock’s attending was an entirely big deal — Sherlock never attended anything, at least nothing he knew of. He never went to any plays, any dances, any sports matches, any family fun nights — from what John had observed, Sherlock definitely didn’t like people, and he most definitely didn’t like crowds of them, and yet, for some unknown reason, he had accepted John’s invite. The thought brought a nervous smile to his face as he yanked on his jersey, the thin material sweeping down over his toned stomach and blending with the matching colors of his rugby shorts. 

He’d have to play his best tonight — he certainly couldn't give Sherlock a bad first impression of his athletic skill, now could he? 

“Ready mate?” He heard Greg ask from his right, and he turned, a warm smile in place and butterflies calming just a bit at his friends soft expression. 

“As I’ll ever be,” He chuckled and slammed his locker shut, sauntering slowly over to where Greg stood and clapping him lightly on the shoulder, sporting an encouraging grin and watching as his friend turned, heading through the doors of the locker-room and exiting out to where the rest of their team was gathered, awaiting captain’s orders. 

He took in the heavy-set smirks of Sebastian Wilkes and James Sholto, their expressions hungry for action as they hopped up and down, fingers shaking and legs bouncing, the entirely of their muscle clad figures fueled by anticipation. Mike was stood off to one side, chatting aimlessly with Sebastian Moran and the rest of the team, all matching in their red and white uniforms, Baker’s mascot and emblem stretched across the front, their player numbers across the back. 

“Alright boys,” John announced, gaining the attention of each of his teammates, their eyes flicking to him loyally, smiles in place and bodies practically trembling with eager excitement. “We’re going to go out there and kick rugby arse, yeah?” 

Hoots and hollers surrounded him and he grinned, the fire in his chest igniting, the positive shouts from his team knocking his own body into full gear, mind switching into competitive mode, heart thrumming anxiously in his chest. 

“Get going then, yeah?” John snapped teasingly, and his mates guffawed and shoved one another, making their way forwards, the blob of red jerseys making their way towards the rugby field where John could already hear the muffled sounds of a crowd moving in. 

“Hey, Watson,” He heard Wilkes call out from behind him before he felt a cold hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly before the boy’s face came into full view, sneering at John as they walked, “you done being all pissy?” 

John scoffed bitterly and glanced at him, “Depends. You done being a massive cock?”

He watched as Wilkes’ grin grew wider, the boy barking a sharp, and utterly devious laugh whilst he tread carefully alongside his team captain, “Come on, mate. I was only having you on.” 

John rolled his eyes and strolled onwards, trying his best to ignore the daft idiot on his left as they approached the grassy field, caked in both mud and their opposing team. Instantly, his eyes shot up to scan the crowd, roaming over the mindless parents all reconnecting and throwing their heads back at brainless jokes and the little kids holding slowly melting ice cream cones, given to them in order to keep them still and happy for the duration of the match. He swept his eyes over the group of people still filing in, finding their seats along the bleachers, unfolding chairs or blankets and placing them atop the soft, green grass. 

No sign. He did see Molly, however, waving to him from her own seat in a small, pink, flower clad chair, just off to the side of the field, a great big, warm smile lining her gentle features. With a deep sigh, half laced with disappointment and the other half tinged with slight embarrassment for having such high expectations, John limply waved back to his friend and trotted behind his team towards their water station, watching as Molly meandered his way, clearly alert to his sagging shoulders, and the downward curve of his lips. 

She reached back to tie her hair in a small bun and then came to a stop right beside John, placing an arm around his shoulders and shooting him a comforting half-smile, “Excited?”

John shrugged lightly and let out a sharp laugh, the puff of hair both bitter and solemn, “Course.”

Molly rolled her eyes and then slowly glanced over at Greg, the boy, a mere few feet from John, cracking open a water bottle and taking a quick sip before rifling through his duffle bag, completely unaware of the small girl’s gaze. John huffed and snapped his fingers to draw her attention back his way, arching a brow knowingly and shaking his head when he watched her shrug as though she was none the wiser. 

“Just ask him out already,” John scoffed, quirking a short smirk before tossing his own bag beside the team’s bench. 

Molly had been crushing on Gregory Lestrade for what felt like forever — she wasn’t the kind of girl to sit around and stare dreamily at posters of famous actors, or dwell on old flings, or sob over the beauty of French, male magazine models, but when it came to Greg, she stuttered, she stumbled, she turned into the biggest klutz John had ever seen, and it was sometimes too difficult for him _not_ to giggle. They’d spoken about it before, John urging her to say something or make some sort of move before he did for her, but she always shook her head, trying to deny it or insist he wouldn’t feel the same way — which, of course, John knew was utter horse shit. Greg Lestrade was the second most genuine person he had ever met. Molly Hooper was the first. 

“Shut up, John Watson,” She hissed under her breath, trying her best to hide a smile at John’s teasing expression, before lifting her head and gazing straight forwards, back over to the bleachers, eyes widening a fraction before a small grin began to break through her tense features. Leaning down to whisper in his ear, Molly let out a soft chuckle and cleared her throat, “I think your boyfriend’s here.”

John’s head flew upwards instantly and Molly helped to guide his chin in the proper direction, and, without a doubt, there he was, back pressed against the bark of a small tree behind several parents sat in their unfolded chairs, a black jumper keeping him warm and skin tight jeans hugging his thighs. He looked ethereal, those chocolate curls displaced in the wind, his complexion so pale he was nearly a ghostly white. 

John found himself staring for far too long until he turned to smile, wide and excited, at Molly, whirling around and jogging towards his new friend, crossing the rest of the field and ducking past the number of parents, of whom paid him no mind. He came to a slow halt in front of the tall, thin figure, rugby uniform and all, and swallowed thickly, not entirely sure what to say but utterly overjoyed that Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of him in that very moment. 

 

“You came,” John beamed, running a hand through his short, dirty blonde hair.

He watched as Sherlock’s eyes flickered in their multicolored shade, blinking repeatedly before dropping to the ground, shyly, timidly, which only caused John’s smile to spread wider across the entirety of his warm expression. 

“I told you I would,” Sherlock’s deep baritone muttered, softly and quietly, rumbling deep in his throat and, out of his control, sending shivers up and down John’s spine. 

Before John could open his mouth to respond, Coach the Roach’s whistle rang out, jolting him awake and knocking him back to reality. With a soft chuckle, he glanced at his team mates preparing to line up and then back at Sherlock. 

“Wait here after the game?” He asked, hope tilting his tone upwards, his gut sweeping slightly, eager to see more of the boy, to spend more time with the boy, to thank the boy properly for even bothering to come out on such a chilly, ordinary day. 

He swelled with utter joy when Sherlock nodded in response, bending down to sit with his back against the tree, hugging his knees to his chest and biting his lip, before softly mumbling, “Break a leg.” 

John let out a bright laugh, perhaps louder than what would be considered normal, and shook his head, winking gently at the dark-haired boy, “Considering it’s rugby, I’ll try not to, yeah?” 

He grinned as Sherlock chuckled under his breath, and went to turn around, striding back towards the field, but not before throwing a quick, “ _See you later,_ ” over his shoulder, his heart nearly bursting with utter delight — Sherlock was here, he was _staying_ , and he was about to watch John play rugby. 

 _Christ_. John had better impress. 

 

* * *

 

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* * *

 

Sherlock thinks John should be recorded — he wants, more than anything, to grab his camcorder, lift it up, zoom right in to John’s position on the field, and stay that way for the remainder of the game. Because John is agile, John is strong and fast and absolutely sublime. It’s in the way his legs quiver when he changes directions at the last minute, in the way the muscles in his thighs pop as he pushes off the mud clad ground at full force, in the determination set deep within his features, in the curve of his half-open mouth, in the depths of those concentrated ocean eyes. It was utterly fascinating, and never before did Sherlock think he’d find rugby of all things _interesting_. But he was entirely transfixed, his eyes never leaving John’s nimble form where it bounced around on the grassy field, tense and resolute, body strong, mind tactful. He was so completely captivated by the sight that he didn’t even notice the yellow shape sitting beside him until it tapped him lightly on the shoulder. 

He jolted to life and turned, eyes narrowed as they landed on the small shape of Molly Hooper, a girl he thoroughly recognized — she and John spent quite a bit of time together, and she was in several of his classes, always smiling politely his way no matter the circumstances, or whether he even bothered to smile back. Swallowing thickly, he gave her a short once over — chestnut hair in a bun, yellow dress sprawled out around her, a fluffy black jacket keeping her warm, charcoal colored boot clad feet — and then simply turned back to the ongoing rugby match, hoping that if he ignored her long enough, she’d disappear. 

“Intense, isn’t it?” She hummed, facing the field with him and beaming brightly to herself, a hand coming up to adjust her bun before wrapping around her legs in an attempt to keep her bare skin warm. 

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment but refused to say anything more, keeping his sights locked onto John’s position, the red shape clapping another player on the back before getting ready for the next play. 

“John really enjoys it,” Molly went on, sighing contently to herself and letting out a soft chuckle, “he secretly likes the competitiveness of it all, I think.” She leaned back against the tree, mirroring Sherlock’s own seating arrangement and glancing at him, a smile broad on her face. 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to meet hers for a moment before returning to where they were before, blinking as he swallowed and sighed silently to himself, admiring the boy of whom was the current topic of discussion. 

“And he really enjoys spending time with you, you know,” Molly informed him, and this time he turned to face her fully, her expression open and sincere, and suddenly he felt a desire to actually talk to the girl next to him.

“He does?” He asked softly, quietly, as though it wasn’t something he should be asking, as though any minute someone would shove him from behind, laugh, and say, _‘don’t be ridiculous.’_

Molly did _laugh_ , but, when she did, it was light and reassuring, comforting in the utmost and entirely soothing to Sherlock’s somewhat frazzled nerves. With a nod, she confirmed his questioning tone and carefully got to her feet, smoothing down her yellow dress and shooting him a genuine smile, extending a small hand towards him, to which he slowly, carefully, accepted. She shook his palm and, with a somewhat melancholy expression, softly stated, “I’m Molly, in case you didn’t know. And if you ever find yourself needing someone who isn’t _too stupid_ , I’m always around.”

And with a short wink, she was skipping off, crossing through the swarm of parents and returning to her little chair in front of the field, taking a seat and instantly continuing to cheer John on. Sherlock blinked, looked down at the ground, thought for a moment and then turned back to eyeing the rugby captain, the heart beating in his chest warm with the kindness of John’s best friend, warm with the swell he’d felt at her words, warm with the notion that John really, well and truly, enjoyed being around him.

With a wholeheartedly more pleasant set of features, Sherlock went back to watching the agile boy on the field, observing the way he called out to his team mates, the way he occasionally glanced back at the crowd as though in need of proper motivation, the way he bounced in place when he wasn’t in battle, the way, much to Sherlock’s heated cheeks, his shorts hiked up just a bit too far with each long stride forwards. Swallowing thickly, he gazed outwards, watching how that dirty blonde hair shimmered when graced by any single ray of sunlight, admiring those ocean blue eyes, so blue, so _very_ blue, he could see their brightness from where he sat. John Watson — _a masterpiece of humanity_ — doing his own version of dancing, across a green, grassy field right before Sherlock’s eyes. 

For once, in his thoroughly _miserable_ life, he finally felt a single, mere, microscopic ounce of hope. 

Hope that maybe, just maybe, things were looking up. 

 

* * *

 

Blue

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* * *

 

The sun had set as John’s rugby match finally came to a victorious end, field lights automatically flicking on with the onset of darkness and the soft shape of the rising moon. The parents and other family members lacing the crowd had cheered as John’s team scored the final point, the players throwing their fists up in triumph, another Home game conquered. The red and white clad boys had made their way over to the guests of whom had come explicitly for them, and with hugs and hollers had parted once more to head toward their locker room, eager for a good rinse and a good change of clothes before leaving with their families, more than likely heading out for a spontaneous victory dinner. John had headed directly over to the small tree, spotting the thin, pale boy thankfully still there, standing now, with a singly hand ruffling his curls as he watched the crowd dwindle with obvious trepidation. John shot him a wide, white grin as he approached, that he more than hoped displayed the entirely enormous amount of joy he was feeling right there, in that very moment. 

He hoisted his rugby bag higher onto his shoulder and slowed as he came to stand before the tall genius, biting his lip and gazing admiringly at the boy, still so very overwhelmed by the fact that he had even shown up in the first place, let alone stayed till the end. 

“We won,” John announced, only to inwardly scold himself for stating the obvious. He watched as Sherlock quirked a small smile and then dropped his gaze to his feet. 

“I figured. The cheering sort of gave it away,” the brunette smirked, a brow arching teasingly as he stared directly, yet still rather shyly, at John’s position before him, knees and thighs caked in mud and wet grass, uniform stained, sweat dampening his blonde hair. 

The rugby captain laughed softly and nodded, beaming brightly up at the other boy before clearing his throat, and letting out a deep, self-encouraging sigh, “You wanna go celebrate?” 

Sherlock seemed to freeze in place, eyes narrowing but staying unnervingly wide, brows furrowing and creasing the skin above his nose, and mouth opening, closing, opening again, in pure bewilderment. Finally, after a few seconds of confused silence, the dark-haired boy swallowed and, his deep voice hoarse, simply asked, “Celebrate?”

“Yeah,” John chuckled, shrugging his shoulders and readjusting his duffle bag, glancing downwards and mindlessly using his cleats to kick at an unrooted chunk of grass, “like grab a bite, or something.” 

He watched as Sherlock blinked, inhaled sharply and then nodded, only once, head bobbing for merely a second as he faced John with an unreadable expression, “Yes, alright.” 

“Alright?” John’s heart picked up its pace.

“I do loathe repeating myself,” He uttered, but the jab was incredibly ineffective, the complete uncertainty wedged into his tone neither intimidating nor hurtful, and the drop of his shy, ethereal eyes as they fixed themselves on the floor beneath his feet quite literally _adorable_.

John’s cheeks reddened and he let out a crazed giggle, the sound high-pitched and shameful, and he quickly glanced downwards and tossed his head up and down as confirmation, whilst he snickered out a soft, “Right, okay.” 

“Let me just go get changed, yeah?” He added, smile small but entirely intricate, laced with so much sincerity he hoped it would pass straight on through to Sherlock, comfort him, alert him to the fact that John was serious, that John wanted more time with him, that _John_ had asked — and John wouldn’t have asked if he hadn’t meant it. 

He turned, keeping his eyes on the boy by the tree until he couldn’t stretch his neck far enough anymore and walked towards the locker room, following the scattered number of his fellow teammates as they headed in the same direction, tired and slumped, but still vibrating with the highlight of their victory.

When he reached the room’s door, he found himself nearly colliding with Sebastian Wilkes, the arse bearing an almost concerning grin, a sneer in place as he laughed at something Sholto said beside him, punching his friend lightly in the shoulder. David Matthews and Harper Blake were pursuing him as well, two players John didn’t really enjoying conversing with even when he was required to, the two of them far too snobbish and self-absorbed for him to get a word in most of the time. The fact that they were good mates of Wilkes didn’t come as much of a surprise. John swallowed as he spotted the four of them, slowing his pace to avoid a collision, and glancing up to fix Sebastian with a thorough glare. 

“Watson,” The cruel, dark-haired harpy smirked, lifting a hand to pat his upper arm, bobbing his head as though providing some sort of confirmation — of what, John wasn’t sure, “The noble captain that led us to victory!” 

His mates cheered and hollered piercingly loud and John cringed slightly where he stood, keeping his eyes down in an attempt to shy away any evidence of obvious irritation. 

He let out a soft scoff and, once somewhat composed, lifted his head, the facade of a smile on his lips, “Only with the team’s help.” 

He met Wilkes’ eyes and the two of them held one another’s gaze, unblinking, unmoving, unflinching — Sebastian was the first to look away, and John considered it an even greater victory than that of their rugby match. 

“We best be off,” Sebastian beamed darkly at John before flicking his head and gesturing Sholto and the others onwards. The four of them walked on, but before disappearing around the corner of the locker-room building, Wilkes turned once more and leered directly at John, teeth bared, lips quirked in pure contentment. John thought he looked like a colder version of the Cheshire Cat. 

“See you next week at practice, _Johnny boy,_ ” and with a final wink, he vanished from view. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock huffed and pressed himself harder against the small tree, bits of bark digging into the thin material of his jumper.  
_Grab a bite. Celebrate._ With _Sherlock_? Sherlock was utter shite at celebrating. 

He _didn’t_ celebrate. He remembered distinctly the last time he’d _had_ something to celebrate — and it wasn’t all too pleasant.

It had been a cold, incredibly cold, winter and Mycroft had come home with a badge of sorts, exclaiming to his mother and father of how he’d managed to convince the public of his idiotically posh secondary school to vote him as class president. His older brother had trotted around the house, badge on, and head held high, clearly proud of his promotion into the government. Sherlock, of course, had been entirely bitter.

At the time, Redbeard was no longer around to keep him company — nor to keep his emotions in check. With his dog’s passing, he’d lost not only his only friend, but also his ability to cope. Redbeard had been his rock, strong and quiet and prepared to listen, and without it, his emotions fell flat.

They were simply there and untouched. He wasn’t sure whether or not to cry them out, punch them out, scream them out. He was lost in his own feelings, his own mind, and it was near impossible to simply ignore them, thought he desperately, desperately tried. He’d called Mycroft every insulting name under the sun, things his mother would slap him for, but Mycroft had simply laughed it off, nose in the air, ginger hair combed back to perfection, badge shiny and gold.

Sherlock had hated it. He’d never done anything to deserve a celebration, other than being born. But even his birthday hardly called for much mirth or joy; his mother and father invited over distant relatives, his obnoxious younger cousins included, and mostly spent the night sipping cocktails with Uncle Siger and his fling for the weekend. It was practically laughable — and it, not once, felt as though it were something in Sherlock’s honor. 

And so, when his mother and father threw a small, get-together, those cousins attending once again, with Mycroft’s favorite kind of cake and a bit of weak wine, Sherlock lost it — lost the entirety of his composure, his emotions overflowing, his anger swelling, his bitter, sour expression bursting into one of outrage. It wasn’t fair and he intended to make them know it. He’d thrown cake, he’d deduced his distant relatives to tears, he’d thrown a tantrum when his dad attempted to drag him away to his room, he’d punched a hole into his wall and dealt with a bruised, and scraped, fist the week after. 

He’d completely lost the plot — and his parents had decided against parties and banquets for the rest of the year, and Mycroft had despised him for it. It eventually passed however and Sherlock had come to the decision he never wanted to celebrate anything again — he told his parents they could take his silly excuse for a birthday party and put it out with the morning’s rubbish. He wanted no part in any more celebratory affairs. 

He’d hated such since. He didn’t celebrate _Christmas_ , nor his _birthday_ — he _did_ celebrate, however, each mile marker he reached within the confines of _theballetbee_ , giving himself a pat on the back for his efforts, for each big gain he made in terms of subscribers, and treating himself to an extra cigarette every day that week, just because. 

And now? Well, now he celebrated John’s rugby match wins, apparently. How funny. How funny that such a boy, blonde and clueless, could have an infinitely powerful affect on him — so much so that he could, truly, deep down, put aside the worries of his past and only see one thing: _John Watson_. 

 

“Hello _fairy_ ,” A deep, cold voice rumbled from behind the tree he sat pressed against, and his skin fell frigid, his veins tightening, his heart thumping rapidly at the sound, a cruel tone he knew all too well. 

He flew to his feet, his phone tumbling out of his pocket at the force of the movement, and, in one stupid, frazzled decision, he reached for it, only to feel hands colliding with his shoulders so forcefully he was on the ground once more, this time on his side — winded, out of breath, and feeling entirely, painfully bruised. He glanced up at the four boys towering brutally over him, their sneers unnerving, their eyes sparkling with so much adrenaline Sherlock felt his fingers beginning to tremble, and his legs beginning to shake. 

“Wilkes,” He coughed out and lifted himself up on one elbow, a glare firmly in place as he glowered up at the boy, unwilling to show any outward sign of fear, of weakness, of dread. 

“What you doin’ here, _Shirley_?” Sebastian Wilkes snapped, much to the amusement of his friends, the other boys chuckling darkly under their breaths and grinning down at Sherlock’s crumpled position on the grassy floor. 

“Can I not attend a rugby match now and again?” Sherlock asked, one brow arched curiously, hoping to appear entirely unperturbed. He wouldn’t mention John. The last thing he wanted to do was enter his life and fuck things up for him — these were his friends; he couldn’t simply expect John to change that little fact. 

“Bet he came to stare at your _arse_ , Seb,” One of the boys further back leered, hitting Wilkes across the shoulder and snickering under his breath, an amused expression gracing the features of everyone except for Sebastian. The man in discussion snarled and shoved his friend backwards before reaching forward and grabbing Sherlock by the front of his jumper, his roar sending Sherlock into panic mode, though his face remained completely, and utterly still. 

“That true, fag?” He snapped, practically growling as he held Sherlock up, his back tightening with the pull of his jumper, his arm instinctively clutching at Seb’s wrists. 

Sherlock swallowed and simply chose to glare, inhaling sharply before gathering his courage, pulling his head back and spitting directly into the face of Sebastian Wilkes. His heart raced with both fear and deep, dark satisfaction at the wincing sort of notion Seb made in response. Seb didn’t let go, however, but held on tighter, eyes shutting as a reflex before they flew open again and before Sherlock knew it, a fist was connecting hard and quick with the bone of his jaw, sending him crashing to the ground, face slamming into the grassy dirt floor. 

He gasped and quickly tried to gather his wits and get to his feet, lifting his palms, nearly getting somewhere when a cleated shoe slammed into the side of his ribcage, followed by another and another, until he could hardly breathe anymore, bones bruised beyond his knowledge, heart beat thumping loudly in his head. 

It had been a while since something like this had happened — it had been kept at bay, kept at simple name calling in the halls, arbitrary shoves in the corridors. But this, this amount of aggression, of anger, hadn’t been thrust upon him in quite some time. 

“No one wants you here, freak,” he barely heard Sebastian shout from above him before a hand was gripping his curls and yanking his chin upwards, giving the brute better access to his ear, so he could finish, lowly and callously, “don’t bother coming to the next one.” 

 

* * *

 

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John’s heart stopped beating when he spotted the tree across the field void of any lanky Sherlock Holmes pressed against it, but regained its normal rhythm when he spotted the tall figure walking slowly — perhaps _too_ slowly — towards the student’s car park. It didn’t take long for John to break into a sprint and come up behind him, now changed into proper clothing, jeans and a beige jumper over a checkered, faded red and white shirt. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, mouth opening in order to startup a conversation with his newfound friend. 

“Sher—“ 

Before he could even complete the boy’s name, thick hands were being placed atop his shoulders and shoving him backwards, so very violently he stumbled a bit on his tennis shoes and had to try desperately to remain upright. Once he’d caught himself and gotten over the initial shock of the forceful, unexpected push, he glanced up into the terrified face of Sherlock Holmes, eyes wide and apologetic, mouth open just slightly as if he were eager to say something, before falling shut, and entire posture hunched and unnervingly crumpled. But that wasn’t what drew John’s eyes — no. John was staring, blankly, transfixed by the large, purple-blue bruise forming along the boy’s jaw, and the small gash along the bottom of the lanky teen’s bottom lip, blood red and strikingly bright against the pale, near ghostly complexion.

John was on fire — he was fuming, absolutely outraged, his heart thrumming rapidly against the confines of his chest, his eyes burning, his fingers trembling, eager to cause serious damage to the single human being that had dared to lay a hand against the fine, porcelain structure of Sherlock’s fragile skin. 

“What’s happened?” John snapped, gazing straight through Sherlock, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring, fists clenching and unclenching, a niche John had picked up, a small tick that revealed itself whenever he became increasingly furious. 

“Nothing’s happened,” Sherlock spat out, gave John a short once over, and continued on his march towards the school parking lot — his discretely hidden limp didn’t go unnoticed by John, neither did the way he held his left arm, wrapped carefully around his torso, half hugging himself. 

“Bullshit,” John growled, chasing after him, determined to get to the bottom of the situation, fury in every line of his expression. He reached forwards, grasping a firm hand around Sherlock’s upper arm and tugging lightly, preventing the boy from walking any further, much to Sherlock’s utter scorn. 

The tall brunette whirled around and fixed John with a pale, blank expression, his eyes, still their ethereal shade, glowing in the dark of the night, their position there, half way to the gate that lined the parking area, utterly unsettling, the depths of Sherlock’s gaze sparking the realization of just how very alone they were, the rest of the team already on their way home, the school shut down for the after dark hours.

“Sorry, John,” Sherlock uttered suddenly, and John blinked in confusion, “Seems you’ll have to celebrate your victory _alone_. Do have fun.” And with that, he was storming off yet again, faster than before but still at a fairly slow pace, seemingly too pained to push harder. 

 _Oh, no._ John would _not_ be having that. _He didn’t get to toss this one off._

Striding purposefully forwards, John sped up until he was directly in front of the other boy, placing a hand on his chest to still his movements and glowering unhappily, irritation and desperation for the truth obvious in his royally blue eyes. 

“You listen to me right now, Sherlock Holmes,” John bit out through gritted teeth, “You will tell me what the bloody hell happened right this fucking moment or I swear to God—“

“You’ll what?” Sherlock asked, deep baritone acidic as he glared down at John, “hurt me? Beat me up further? Finish what they started?” He made to walk away again, but John promptly stopped him. 

“Who’s they?” John interrogated, one brow arched and eyes narrowed, eager to get to the bottom of this entire mess, panic and resentment for whom he could guess had a hand in things resting in the pit of his stomach. 

Instead of another defensive response, all John heard was _his_ name, _John_ , uttered simply and lowly beneath Sherlock’s breath, hoarse and delicate, as though his innermost emotions had leaked out somehow through that one word, that title, that name. 

And, for the first time since John had seen the blue blotch against that pale jaw, John looked — _really looked_ — at Sherlock Holmes. His features were twisted in some sort of knowingly pained expression, and his eyes were glassy and shimmeringly wet in the moonlight. His curls were ruffled beyond fixing and his jumper had bits of grass and dirt sitting against the soft fabric. John could see, there in his features, how very scared he was, frightened, terrified even, but he could also see how well he replaced that genuine sincerity with a well-developed mask — a face that revealed no such emotional movement of any sort. But in that moment, watching Sherlock stand there, head hanging low, one arm twisted around his chest, bruise bright against white skin, bottom lip pursed and a raw red, he was practically convinced that Sherlock Holmes may just be the _most_ emotional man he’d ever met. In the best ways possible. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John began, kinder this time, not harsh nor demanding — simply soft, inviting, comforting —and he placed a gentle, loose palm on Sherlock’s far too bony shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly and bending a bit to stare into the face he held so fixed to the floor, “Just tell me who it was. Please?” 

Sherlock swallowed, glanced to his side, then to the floor, sighed and then shook his head, “Sebastian Wilkes and three others.” 

John nodded, removing his hand from Sherlock’s thin frame as it began its usual routine of ‘clench, unclench, clench, unclench,’ and moving aside, growling under his breath and kicking at the ground with his sharp cleats, a chunk of grass flying upwards and plummeting noiselessly to the earth below once more. 

“Fuck,” he whispered angrily under his breath before a snarl rose within him and he snapped the word yet again, this time far louder, with far more fury, the fire in his belly crackling and spitting out clouds of outraged smoke. 

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, beginning to saunter away in his fixed direction, back turned to John as he strode by his frazzled state, sights trained forward, body tense, stiff with discomfort, unsettled and on edge, always expecting another blow even when the giver of such was no longer around. 

“If that’s all you have to say, I think I really should be going,” Sherlock barked, limping onward and catching John’s attention once more. 

“No, _Sher_ — _wait_.” 

The rugby captain sprinted up to his right and walked alongside him, following his tall figure through the chain-link gate and onto the black gravel of the parking lot, Sherlock’s long strides forward silent where as John’s rugby shoes clicked along the ground. 

“I’ll _kill_ him,” John murmured as they walked in silence — Sherlock obviously aware of where he intended to be, John simply walking, blankly, beside him, uncaring in the current moment as to where he may be headed to. 

Sherlock shook his head irritably, but said nothing, staring down at the ground, his jaw looking two shades darker than his natural skin tone and utterly grayscale in the dimly lit night sky. 

John wished he knew what he was thinking. 

Taking a deep breath, the rugby captain placed a very gentle hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, stilling the boy in his steps, and he walked around him, smiling softly, comfortingly, and letting out a long sigh, “Come on. I’ll take you home.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as though waiting for John to change his mind, or, perhaps, trying desperately to figure out if John was simply offering out pity or not. With a calculating gaze and a slight nod of his head, Sherlock agreed to his proposition and soon John was leading them towards the familiar dingy, beaten up automobile. 

He was still fuming — hell, he was still completely and utterly outraged. What right did Sebastian Wilkes have to treat Sherlock — to treat anyone — the way he did? It was cruel, it was manipulative and cold and entirely dark-minded. It was proof of how horrid a human being Wilkes was and John was slowly reaching his breaking point — he was boiling over, like water left, forgotten, on a hot stove. He refused to acknowledge a person of his character, he refused to even begin to chat amicably with him, he refused to call him a friend — one day, and one day _soon_ , John Watson was going to explode, like dynamite, like a long since inactive volcano, like a water balloon too full, too swarmed with rushing water, that it helplessly reached its end. And oh, how he’d enjoy himself when he did. 

As for Sherlock — _well_ — John vowed to protect him, to care for him, at whatever cost. 

That’s what friends did, wasn't it? 

 

 

* * *

 

Blue

1k views. 980 Likes, 4 Dislikes.

 

* * *

 

“Look —“

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” 

“Don’t make small talk, don’t make a sound — just do not _speak._ It’s practically nauseating,” Sherlock insisted, slamming his body back against the cushioned car seat as they drove along the busy, traffic-light lit London roads.

John watched as he winced slightly with the force of his angry movements and swallowed, trying his best not to get too offended by an irritable Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry I’m so _nauseating_ ,” He muttered to himself as he stared at the cars in front of him, sighing softly and chewing the inside of his cheek mindlessly. 

John simply couldn’t force away the urge within him to apologize for the entire, obviously awful ordeal Sherlock had experienced earlier — he wanted to say sorry, he _needed_ to say sorry. It was grating on him, nagging at his brain, sending him into a nervous frenzy. His guilt tolerance was at its utmost — if he hadn’t told Sherlock to wait for him would he be in pain right now? Would Sebastian have still found him? Would things have happened _differently_? 

He couldn’t help but feel an imaginary rift sliding between the two of them and he would curse Sebastian for all eternity because of what he’d done — John had been making _actual_ progress, Sherlock had been warming up to him, beginning to trust him, and now there seemed to be a slowly rising wall, as though Sherlock was reinstalling his defenses, forcing his protection back into place, expression falling guarded and shut away once more. And John didn’t blame him. 

“Sherlock,” John swallowed thickly, forcing the knot in his throat downward and inhaling shakily. 

“What did I _just_ say,” Sherlock murmured under his breath, rolling those indescribable eyes as he glared out the car window, curls flopping lazily and messily against his forehead. 

“I’m sorry. Really, and _truly_ , sorry.” 

When John uttered the two words, Sherlock instantly turned back to look at him, realizing he wasn't apologizing for speaking again, with one brow arched irrevocably high and lips turned downwards in feigned confusion, “Whatever for?”

John huffed and gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles whitening, “Come on. You _know_ what for.”

Sherlock blinked, cleared his throat and turned away once more, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

With that, John let out a low growl and flipped on his indicator, pulling out of traffic swiftly and rolling down a side strip and against a vacant curb, parking along a small street of which was lined with a multitude of unimpressive shops, all closed due to the time, setting a dark and rather eerie scene as John turned in his seat to face Sherlock head on. 

“God damn it, Sherlock,” He snapped, running a hand up and over his blonde hair, no longer damp from his shower, “you are _not_ making this easy for me, you know that?” 

“ _Drive me home_ ,” Sherlock forced out, eyes scattering over every inch of their location, of the parked car, of John’s somewhat exasperated expression, his fingers quivering where they were clenched in his lap, his knee bouncing anxiously — if John didn’t know any better, he’d say Sherlock looked utterly and entirely frightened. 

But _why?_ What _of_? Of _John_? Bloody hell, he couldn’t possibly be. 

“Look at me,” John stated, firmly but not cruelly, his body turned in the long, thin boy’s direction, waiting expectantly for the genius to meet his eyes. When he simply continued to gaze worriedly at his surroundings, John cleared his throat, took a deep breath and commanded, far louder, “ _Look_ at me!” 

Sherlock whirled to face him, split bottom lip close to trembling, jaw even darker now, eyes wide and shocked, figure tense and entirely untrusting. It pained John to observe him in such a state — the confident, lanky, chemistry-loving Sherlock Holmes reduced to a shivering mess of bruised limbs and bones, brutal hands having sentenced him to a state of utter peril — John wanted to kill, _painfully slowly too_ , anyone who had ever uttered a mean word to him. 

John’s eyes dropped to where Sherlock had obviously been chewing nervously on his bottom lip, the slice across the plump flesh oozing red liquid sickeningly slowly, and, without even thinking, he reached for the small pack of tissues he kept close in his glove compartment and rapidly yanked one out, lifting his hand to press the white cloth against Sherlock’s lips. The boy jerked back in surprise and glared at John, eyes narrowed and glossy, clearing uncertain of whether or not he was safe, alone with John in some back alleyway, a sketchy side road where anything could happen — where John could turn on him and leave him for dead if he’d liked.

“Hey,” John breathed softly, inching a bit closer to him and nodding his head carefully, comfortingly, “Relax. It’s okay, I _promise_.” 

Slowly, but surely, Sherlock sunk back into his previous position and the tissue made contact once more with the corner of his bottom lip, soaking up the newly shed blood with ease as John dabbed it gently across the plush pink shape of his mouth. The dirty blonde lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s and found that he was being watched with a look so intense he almost felt entirely unclothed, bare before the eyes of the genius he’d grown so very fond of. Unreadable shades and hues met John’s ocean irises and for a moment everything was forgotten — it was merely Sherlock Holmes, one many believed to be a lost cause, but one John believed to be _a masterpiece of humanity_. He was like a half finished painting left alone in an empty studio, or a cracked mosaic, damaged but still entirely beautiful — he was a boy unlike any other John had come across; he was a uniquely new species of _reality_. 

Dropping his eyes and clearing his throat weakly, John pulled back, crumpling up the tissue and tossing it in one of the cupholders, before turning to Sherlock, eyes far more serious, compelling and encouraging as he gazed at the bruised boy before him.

“How often does this happen?” He asked, talking around the frog in his throat.

“What?” Sherlock’s voice was no louder than a whisper, and shaky, but still deep and clear all the same. 

“ _This_ , Sherlock,” John gestured to his lip and jaw, running another hand through his hair and nervously scratching at the back of his neck before his hand dropped once more. 

“Why can’t you say it?” Sherlock wondered quietly, eyes narrowed, position sinking a bit more, relaxing into the seat, alerting John to the fact that he was steadily realizing he had nothing to worry over. 

“Say what?”

“That I got beaten round the head, John. Slapped about, pushed around, taught a right and proper lesson,” Sherlock snapped, another glare firmly in place. 

“ _Shut up_ ,” John spat out, jaw clenched.

“Why?”

“Just,” He inhaled shakily, “shut up.” 

A moment of utter silence passed until John leaned back in his car seat and let loose a loud sigh, shaking his head and glancing out the driver’s side window, uttering softly, “You don’t deserve it.” 

He heard Sherlock scoff, “Doesn't matter.”

John turned back around to face him, brow furrowed, “Why the hell not?”

“Because they don’t see it that way, do they?” Sherlock stated firmly, shrugging a single shoulder before lifting his legs up onto the seat and hugging them against his chest, lips pursed and expression eerily blank. 

John swallowed and looked down, thinking his words over in his head. Christ, he was entirely right and it made John completely and utterly sick to his stomach. He hated it — he hated that there were so many things in this bloody life that could so easily break the cleverest, and most amazing, of people. Sherlock had somehow drawn the short straw on who gets chosen for life’s mental lashings. But fuck it — John would just have to make sure nothing else cracked that mosaic any further, that nothing stopped the artist from finishing his masterpiece. 

Sherlock cleared his throat over the soft whirring of the car engine. 

“ _Please_ drive me home.” 

 


	10. Knots and Crosses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cheated?” John gaped, laughing incredulously as they approached his locker, “How the hell do you cheat at Knots and bloody Crosses?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers. x  
> I'd like to thoroughly apologize for the wait you have had to endure on this one.  
> I lost my best friend in the past few weeks, and it has been incredibly hard for me to carry on without her.  
> On top of this, things are not very comfortable at home and I haven't had much time to write with finals topping everything else off. 
> 
> In other words, I do hope I haven't lost any of you, and please do remember that no matter how long the wait, this fic will be finished regardless. Thank you for understanding, and if you don't mind, I'd love to read some comments on what you thought of the new chapter - this story is currently one of few very good things in my life. x
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading.  
> All the best, and all my love to you.

When John drops him off, Sherlock doesn’t stick around for a follow-up conversation. Instead, he practically hurls himself out of John’s hideously old car, doesn’t bother to glance at John’s awestruck position as he sits, parked before Sherlock’s large, overly posh house, and darts towards his front door, turning his back to the boy he’d so helplessly fallen in love with. He hears the driver’s side click open, and winces as John calls out to him, softly, _kindly_ , voice laced with a gentle comfort that so thoroughly crawls beneath his skin he wants to grip tight to his hand and ask him to stay. _Stay_.

“Hey,” The voice says, warmly, and Sherlock can see that small smile on his face without even needing to turn around. He hurries to remove his keys from his jacket pocket, his fingers trembling, both from the cold, and that stupid blonde rugby captain standing beside his car, only a few feet behind him. 

Sherlock waits, key lifted to the door handle, frozen in place, not sure what he expects John to say, not sure what he wants to hear, not sure if he wants to hear anything at all. 

“Thank you,” John states, loud and clear, and Sherlock shuts his eyes at the very idea of it. John? Thanking him? Who was the one who had spared him a grueling walk home, that had lifted a careful, precise hand to his injured lip merely to _help_ , that had shown him, in one simple moment, that he wouldn’t belittle him, that he wouldn’t _hurt_ him like everyone else chose to. 

“What for,” Sherlock couldn’t help but spit out, back still turned to the boy behind him, heart hammering in his chest with the weight of it all — how irrevocably deep Sherlock had fallen, how close he was to kneeling on the floor in front of John’s feet and pleading, crying, _begging_ that he simply love him back. 

“Coming to my game,” John answered, tone soft, careful, cautious, “You’ll never understand how much it meant to me. I know it’s not really your thing.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, he drops his head and stares harshly at the ground beneath his Converse clad feet, eyes stinging with the bitter, cold London air, the same air that burned his cheeks, reddened the tip of his ears, revealing the smoky nature of his breath. 

“Look, Sherlock, about tonight —“

“Good night, John,” He snapped, fiddled with the handle, and threw himself behind his front door, slamming the very thing after him, and throwing his body back against it, curls and skull thumping rather loudly as he slumped there, inhaling as deeply and as sharply as he could possibly manage, the nearing panic slowly subsiding. 

 _Pathetic_ ; he was _pathetic_. A coward — running from mere conversation. Though, in his defense, conversation with the boy he’d jump off a building for, the same boy who had looked at him and had tried his best to hide the pity behind those ocean eyes.

 _Stupid_ ; he was so _stupid_ to even think for one second that he deserved an ounce of John Watson’s attention. The rugby captain was wasting his precious minutes every time he even bothered with Sherlock — every time he asked how he was, shot him a text, invited him out for coffee; and there Sherlock was, accepting every offer, returning every text, answering every question. Because, plain and simply, he couldn’t quite get enough of John Watson — enough of his golden hair, his sea-blue eyes, his warm smile, that personality that practically radiated all that was light and pure. But it was merely friendship, they were merely lads, good mates, two boys who happened to make one another’s acquaintance, nothing more.

And, still, there he stood, a low, hollow sensation in his gut pleading with him that, one day, John would love him back — cowardice and all.  

 

* * *

 

 _watsonmyface_ _: There’s just no limit to your talent is there? I could listen to this for hours. -Watson_  

 

> _theballetbee_ _: @watsonmyface I’m entirely glad to hear it. -B_
> 
> _watsonmyface: @theballetbee You’ll hear it a ton. Figure I might make a record of commenting on each and every one of your videos from this day forward. ;) -Watson_

 

* * *

 

When John pulled the rattling car into the parking lot of the modest, little building of flats he called home he found himself shutting off the engine and sitting still for a moment, staring blankly at the white of his knuckles as he gripped tight to the grey steering wheel. 

His mind was whirling — he didn’t know what he felt, how he felt, what he did feel and what it meant. He was so bloody confused it was beginning to make his fingers trembling, his body shiver with panic, his head thrum with frustration. He was entirely unnerved and he was angry; angry at Sebastian, at his team, at the cut across Sherlock’s lip, at his inability to _help_. But he was also warmed, by the way Sherlock’s features had settled as John gently took care of him, parked in the quiet alleyway, at the way his eyes had widened slightly when John promised everything would be okay. 

But there was something else, something he didn’t quite understand that was blooming at the pit of his stomach, uprooting itself and growing, twisting, stretching, sprawling out through his gut, clutching to his heart with a bewildering pang. He was beginning to see Sherlock differently, to see him _more_ , to admire him _more_ , to look, really _look_ , at him _more_. 

Ebony curls, unreadable eyes, sharp features, an untamable mind. 

It was all so different — his body felt different, his brain yelled different things, his eyes saw different details. John Watson didn’t quite know who _John Watson_ was anymore — and the very thought was both exciting and increasingly worrying. 

 

He heard the passenger door open at his left and he nearly jolted out of his skin as his sister slid in beside him, turning and tucking her legs beneath her as she began staring directly at him, shaped brows arched his way suspiciously, caramel brown hair done-up in a loose bun, green uniform thrown on haphazardly, lashes lined with mascara and lips a light shade of pink — she’d clearly been given another nightshift.

“Right, what’s eating you then?” She asked, looking at him with a rather concerned yet amused gaze, her features light and open aside from her furrowed brow. 

John scoffed and sighed softly, glancing over at her before staring back down at his hands, dropping them lifelessly into his lap as he cleared his throat. 

“Problem is,” he began, “I don’t quite know.” 

Harriet nodded, as though she really, truly, did understand, and huffed thoughtfully, moving so that her back was pressed against the leather car seat, and lifting her legs to stretch them out in front of her, crossing her feet on the dashboard with ease, “How was the game?”

John shrugged, “We won.” 

“That’s _supposed_ to be a _good_ thing.”

John chuckled and bobbed his head in agreement, gazing briefly at her before leaning back as well and shutting his eyes, “The game was fine. It was what came after.” 

Harry frowned and turned her head to watch him carefully, “And what came after?”

Her younger brother opened his eyes and and let out a shaky breath, running a rough hand through his dirty blonde hair and swallowing thickly before laughing rather wetly, a sad smile breaking the warmth of his features, “Don’t you have work?”

Harry lifted a shoulder carelessly and fixed him with a rather serious glare, “I can spare a few minutes for my baby brother, you tit.” 

Beaming, John shot her a nod and then followed with a shake of his head, mind spinning as he thought of where to start, thought of what to say, what to tell her, how to tell her. There was so much he could say and yet so little came to mind, so he simply settled on voicing his inner conflict, on just what was tormenting the internal workings of his mind.  

“Have you ever felt so responsible for someone that every time you see them get hurt a part of you just,” John swallowed and frowned, in search of the right word, “ _aches_?” 

His sister gazed at him with wide eyes, brows at her hairline, and let out a sharp, rather bemused giggle, the sound emanating both shock and disbelief, “Christ, John, are you in _love_?”

John felt his cheeks turning pink as his skin warmed, and he quickly looked away, scowling at his hands once more and rolling his eyes, “Oh, _shut up_ , Harry.”

“No, no, I’m bloody serious,” She snapped, and he instantly turned back to face her again, taking in the solidarity of her expression, her lips drawn in a thin, hard line, her eyes flashing some sort of warning his way as he blinked blankly and listened whilst she continued, “because whoever this person is, they sound pretty damn important.” 

John dropped his eyes again, only to lift them once more as Harry placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“Look,” She smiled, warmly, “I’m no stranger to love, but that doesn’t mean I’m any good at it. All I know, is that without Clara, I’d be bloody lost, alright?” 

John nodded. 

“And this person,” Harry continued, “would you be lost without them?”

 _Yes_. And _god_ , was that a terrifying thought. He’d known Sherlock Holmes, _truly_ known him, for only a matter of days, and yet here he was, _attached_ beyond belief, longing to talk to him again, eager to walk beside him once more, desperate to just get one more smile to form on that pale, sharp-featured face of his. 

John nodded again.

And instead of more wise words from his older sister, he received a punch to the shoulder and a wide, toothy grin, “Look at that, you little lovebird you.” 

John scoffed and shoved her hands away, groaning at her pleased expression before he slammed his head against the steering wheel and remained there, hunched over, eyes shut tight, body anxious and unsteady. 

“Christ,” Harry snorted, “she must be a piece of work, huh?”

In one solid motion, John lifted his head and fixed her with the most telling expression he could possibly muster. And he saw the exact moment she realized his hidden, unspoken words, her features widening in complete and utter surprise, before her initial shock melted into a face both amused and smug. 

“Oh,” She mused, a wide — _far too wide_ — smile matching the rest of her self-satisfied appearance. 

“ _Please_ , shut up,” John moaned in utter humiliation, heart thumping rapidly in his chest as though he’d suddenly uttered his deepest and darkest secret, when in reality he hadn’t said a word. 

“ _He_ must be a piece of work then,” She grinned, and John could practically feel how hard she was trying to desperately restrain the enormous amount of excited giggles she was currently holding captive behind her bubblegum lips. 

He shut is eyes once more and thumped his head yet again against his steering wheel, but before he could fall too deep into his own mental agony, a poke to the side of his stomach sent him turning right back to Harry again, his face portraying what could only be deduced as misery — not because tonight had been quite the night of _realizations_ , but because he was utterly, and entirely, _terrified_. 

“ _John_ ,” His sister started again, her face a bit solemn this time, strict and yet comforting, brows drawn down and eyes warmly narrowed, her mouth quirking a bit at one end, “You know that’s okay, right?”

He cleared his throat and fell back against the car seat once more, “Yeah.”

He was rewarded with a shove to his shoulder, and he quickly whirled around to glare bitterly at his older sibling, her expression one of utter exasperation.

“I’m _serious_ ,” She spat out, watching him carefully.

He sighed and nodded firmly, “I know.”

And then she sighed too, and they were suddenly both silent as they sat in the homey car, John’s fingers numb with the cold blowing in from the open windows, Harry’s ears slightly pink, matching the tone of her lipstick rather well. He glanced at her, an appreciative smile lining his slowly softening features, as an overwhelming swell of fondness swept through his stomach — he wasn’t sure what he’d do without her most days. 

“Don’t,” He mumbled, his throat feeling thick with uncertainty, “don’t tell anyone, yeah?”

Harry turned back to him and arched a brow, “Who the bloody hell would I tell?”

John shot her a desperate glare.

“Fine,” She scoffed, “ _fine_. I promise.”

With a somewhat wonky smile, John let out a relived puff of air and stared gratefully at his sister, watching her own grin rise across her face as she sent him a nod of finality — a simple bob of her head that told him she would never betray his trust, that told him his words were safe with her, that told him his little secret would be only their knowledge and theirs alone. 

“Well,” She exhaled deeply, tone of voice suddenly both exhausted and irritable, “I best be off, yeah?”

With a quick ruffle of his hair, she was shooting back out the car’s passenger door and disappearing behind its solid form, leaving John sat on his own in the silent serenity of the motionless car. Swallowing thickly and finding a boost of bold strength hidden beneath all his nervous excitement, John yanked his phone out from his back pocket and tapped the screen, scrolling through his apps until he found his messages. 

He typed out a simple message.

 

_I’ll never let him hurt you again._

 

He couldn’t hold back the pang in his heart when, by the time he was washed, dressed for bed, and lying beneath the covers, he still hadn’t received a response.

 

 

* * *

 

 **Twitter User:** _watsonmyface_

 

John H. Watson

_Stick around if you want to know what’s on my face today. :)_

 

 _Following_ : 38

 _Followers_ : 15,679

 

 _John H. Watson_ : I hate bullies.

 

 

> Lady White _@gimmeawforwatson_ : is someone picking on you? I’ll beat them up.
> 
> Victoria _@viclikeswatson_ : me too John
> 
> John is bae @ _watsbeeoverload_ : hi okay me too but is someone hurting you? We all love you John don’t let them get to you
> 
> _Load 5,768 more comments…_

 

 _John H. Watson:_ Win for my rugby team today. Couldn’t have done it without their joint efforts! Charge on, mates!

 

 

> Tiffany West @ _westiejohn_ : congratulations John! 
> 
> Victoria @ _viclikeswatson_ : amazing! And I’m sure you looked mighty fine in those shorts 
> 
> _Load 390 more comments…_

 

 _John H. Watson:_ So, I’ve got a certain hashtag practically overtaking my Twitter notifications at the moment. Anyone care to explain what #beeface means? 

 

 

> Jenny B @ _jennyfromthecorner_ : It’s the ship name between you and theballetbee, unfortunately. You made one video talking about how much you enjoy his videos, and now your fangirls are quaking. 
> 
> Lady White @ _gimmeawforwatson_ : excuse you, Jenny B. Only party poopers don’t appreciate a good ship. 
> 
> Jessica Bee @ _lilbuzzingbrunette_ : Honestly, I’m a huge fan of theballetbee and I’m totally okay with this hashtag. I think it’s awesome what you did John, shouting him out like that, and its sparked something wonderful in your fans that people are talking about!
> 
> Jenny B @ _jennyfromthecorner_ : You’re all idiots honestly. It’s never going to happen, I mean, John isn’t even gay. And who knows about the ballerina guy.
> 
> Bee Butt is a Good Butt @ _buzzgoesthebeesdance_ : first off, you’re disrespecting my favorite YouTuber, who is also fucking anonymous so gain some self control, Jennifer. Second, it’s a SHIP. Which means its a harmless way we see a relationship. Unless John comes out and truly says we are insulting him with it, it’s not doing any harm to anyone! Thirdly, we never said it would happen, not matter how much we wish it would!
> 
> _Load 1,345 more comments…_

 

Abigail W. @ _abbysmithh_ : John, can’t wait for your next video, my dude! My sister and I watch you all the time here in lil ol’ Arkansas. Patiently waiting for the next new-vid notification from you!

Beeface for days @ _yourotpismyotp_ : Watson! We need more beeface! I noticed you’ve been chatting him up on a couple of his vids. Tell him to get a Twitter why don’t you? :D

Oh dearie dear @ __Ohdearie__ : let your gay breathe John, I can see it in you

Mark is dark @ _sarahiplier_ : #BEEFACE

Vee @ _LilAssbuttAngel_ : Hello! So, you and Bee are both incredible and I’d love to see a collab from you both, regardless of the whole beeface thing. But, you know, #beeface because I can’t help it honestly. :)

Gay bean @ _lesbiagaykids_ : #beeface my dude

 

* * *

 

With a huff, Sherlock dropped the half smoked cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his black boot, turning towards the school’s front entrance and shaking his head in misery. The day he was excited to be at Baker would be the day he’d finally lost the plot. 

Sighing again, he made a move to step forward, only to freeze in his tracks as a soft, warm voice, that seemed to hold sunshine and marshmallows and vanilla and black tea with extra sugar and sweet blueberry jam, called out to him, the footsteps thumping in his ear growing louder as none other than John Watson drew nearer before finally trotting up beside him. 

Turning, rather more hesitantly than normal as he felt the eyes of passerby’s on both his and John’s stance there, in the middle of the path leading to the front entrance’s stairway into Baker’s deep, dark halls, he came face to face with the dirty blonde boy. John smiled wide at him, as though the day before had never happened, as though Sherlock hadn’t cut him off, or ignored his text, or treated him and his aid like proper rubbish. _Christ_ , Sherlock though to himself, _John Watson was truly something else_.

“Hey,” the rugby captain grinned, his ocean eyes dropping carefully over the entirety of Sherlock’s body, calculating and focused, as though double-checking he hadn’t been hurt once more between the span of when John had dropped him off and now. 

“Hello,” Sherlock nodded politely before turning away once more and facing the stairs, eager to leave the conversation there, unwilling to cause anymore attention towards their position, towards _John_.

But John — stupid, bloody, all-seeing _John_ — narrowed his eyes and grabbed lightly to Sherlock’s upper arm, holding it softly and preventing his leave, titling his head in confusion as he gazed thoughtfully at Sherlock’s blank expression. 

“Alright?” The blonde asked, brows raised questioningly. 

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, and pulled his arm from John’s grip. He then glanced at the boy, watching as his eyes dropped to his slightly swollen bottom lip, his face creasing with a hint of worry before it softened yet again and fixed itself on Sherlock’s tense features, the way he was stood, angled away, guarded and closed-off. 

Eager to end the staring, the silent deducing, the quick glances and frown replacing John’s kind smile, Sherlock cleared his throat and gazed forwards, not entirely at John but not entirely away from him either, “I think you should leave me alone now.” 

He tried to ignore the way John’s light features instantly dropped, “What, why?”

“So, you’re not seen with me.” 

To his utter horror, John Watson laughed, a grin replacing his hurt expression, “What? You embarrassed of me?”

With a snarl, Sherlock lunged forwards and grabbed John’s hand, yanking him away from the school’s main entrance and around the corner, shoving him lightly behind the side of the building, away from prying eyes, away from those who may wish to hurt him, away from the horrid Baker atmosphere, and instead amidst a rather larger amount of graffiti and a few stray students with cigarettes hanging from their lips. 

He rounded on John, a scowl twisting his expression into one of pure frustration as he turned, facing the boy, who — how _dare_ he — simply looked entirely smug, one brow lifted, the corner of his mouth quirked upward in mute satisfaction. 

“Are you a complete idiot?” Sherlock spat out, staring at the boy in front of him expectantly, arms lifted, eyes drawn into a squint as he frowned. 

“Depends on who you ask,” John shrugged, letting — the bloody _arse_ — a light chuckle slip through the calm and composed line of his plush, pink lips. 

“Why are you so determined to ruin everything for yourself?” Sherlock asked, running a frazzled and utterly irritated hand through his thick, brown curls. 

“ _Sorry?”_

“You are going to bugger up your life by merely _chatting_ to me, you realize that, yes?” 

“Oh, _come on_ ,” John scoffed, shaking his head and stepping closer, much to the resent of Sherlock’s already fractured composure.

“If you haven’t already,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, and tired not to focus on how very enchanting a sassy, sarcastically confident John Watson just happened to be. 

“You can’t be serious,” John laughed, once, sharp and amused, before he stared blankly at Sherlock, gazing at his scowl and slowly lifted his brows in utter bemusement, “Shit, you _are_ serious.” 

“People are going to start seeing you as they see me,” Sherlock bit out, gritting his teeth as he dropped his eyes to the gravel beneath both his and John’s shoes, “And trust me, John Watson, that’s the _last_ thing you want.” 

“Since when have you cared about what other people think?” The rugby captain asked in return, his brows furrowed in honest wonderment, his hands gripping just a bit tighter to the straps of his backpack. 

 

Sherlock inhaled sharply, swallowing the knot in his throat, and turning away, shaking his head and shutting his eyes as he thoroughly thought over the very question — why did he care what anyone thought of John? John wasn’t his, John wasn’t _him_ , and John was fully capable of taking care of himself. So, why was he _so_ determined to send him away? Why did it hurt _so_ much more when he thought of John taking the insults, the punches, the horrid name-calling, than it did when Sherlock received it himself? God, he was _losing_ it. His every intelligent thought was being quite successfully replaced with human error. He could hardly call himself a genius for far longer if he kept this up — this _sentiment_ , this weakness, this perfectly human _flaw_. 

Replacing his irritated expression with a blank mask, he lifted his nose a bit and shrugged a single shoulder, swallowing thickly to himself as he watched John’s expression change from curiosity to concern. 

“I don’t,” He uttered, tone bland and mundane, _unaffected_ , “Just thought you should save yourself the trouble whilst you still had the chance.”

And with that, he turned to leave, heart thrumming in his chest so quickly it hurt, gut painfully bitter, eyes stinging with an anger that verged on devastation — but there it was again, that hand, those fingers that latched on to his wrist and kept him afloat, warm and steady, strong and bold, gripping him and telling him to _stay_ without any words at all. 

“Sherlock,” John called out softly, voice hushed, so very close to a mere whisper, as he used his hold on Sherlock’s forearm to keep him in place, rounding slowly on the boy and smiling that warm, comforting smile, “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, yeah?” 

And there it was — or there it _went_ he should say. His composure, slipping as though everything in his mind palace had suddenly turned to ice, his brain panicking; those ocean eyes somehow saw straight through the very facade of emotion Sherlock had desperately put up in retraction. 

Swallowing, blinking, fingers trembling, Sherlock whirled to John and scowled, anxiousness underlying those angered features, “ _You_ decided to be my friend, _you_ took the risk, _you’re_ the idiot and _you’re_ putting _yourself_ in this situation.”

John quirked a smile.

Sherlock could feel it slipping farther, “I never asked you to stick around, are we clear? So don’t you _dare_ come running to me when all of this blows right up in that stupid, bloody face of yours, understood?” 

“Sherlock.” 

“Be my friend, I don’t care. Why would I? If you’re too moronic to take my advice then fine, so be it. But I _don’t_ care, I truly _don’t_ , and I don’t need —“

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John stated again, this time lifting his hands and placing them on Sherlock’s bony shoulders. 

Sherlock swallowed the rest of his sentence and glanced up at he boy in front of him, gazing wildly at that small, bashful grin, those glowing blue irises, the warmth behind the creases beside his eyes and the soft dimples in his cheeks. 

“Shut up, yeah?”

With a nod, Sherlock did. 

“I’ll see you in Lit, okay?” John asked, winking gently and sending the entirety of whatever remained of Sherlock’s mask to the very pit of his stomach, replacing it instead with warmth, and adoration. 

“And maths,” Sherlock muttered shyly.

“And maths.”

He allowed himself a small smile at that. 

 

* * *

 

 **Twitter User:** _watsonmyface_

 

John H. Watson

_Stick around if you want to know what’s on my face today. :)_

 

 _Following_ : 38

 _Followers_ : 15,685

 

 _John H. Watson:_ Learning a bit about France’s queen in 1774. Mates, she damn well lost her head!

 

 

> Lady White @ _gimmeawforwatson_ : omg I’m unsubscribing 
> 
> Lilly Bird @ _flyhomeflyaway_ : I’m so using this on my history teacher
> 
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> 
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> 
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 _John H. Watson_ : It’s the little things…

 

 

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> 
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> 
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> 
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* * *

 

It wasn’t exactly a big deal to John when he entered maths, and instead of sitting at his normal table, amongst his usual “ _friends_ ,” he simply chose to sit beside Sherlock, tossing his bag beside the desk and sliding in so quickly, their shoulders brushed. To him, it was simply preference — he simply preferred Sherlock Holmes over James Sholto and Sebastian Moran any day, but to Sherlock it was as though he had openly performed a miracle. The brunette had originally turned to him with a glare, as though he was expecting some arbitrary student to take up residence next to him, however as soon as he realized just who was sat at his side, his eyes widened, his scowl dropped, and he visibly swallowed. 

But John merely shrugged and smiled kindly his way, “You mind?” 

And when Sherlock had shaken his head, John had grinned and turned back to the front of the classroom, listening intently to his maths teacher as their lecture began, all the while aware of the mystifying cerulean-green-gray eyes boring into the side of his face. 

He didn’t care for the risks — he knew befriending Sherlock, choosing Sherlock over the others, would have consequences and he was aware he would feel them at their full extent in the days to come, but he truly couldn’t find it within himself to give a shit. Sherlock Holmes was a wonder, a genius, a charming, incredible human being, both cracked in places and yet polished pristine in others — and hell, if Harry was right, John was in far too deep to back down now. 

The buzz of his phone vibrating in his back pocket knocked him out of his reverie and he quickly reached for it, holding it discretely beneath the desk, and tapping his messages open. 

John narrowed his eyes. 

 

_Why are you sitting by Holmes?_

 

It was from Greg, and John resisted the urge to turn around in his seat and fix the boy with a confused glare. Instead, he frowned and typed out a response, keeping things as simple as physically possible. 

 

_We’re mates._

 

Swallowing, he turned his attention back to the lecture, only to be distracted once again as, predictably, Greg texted him back.

 

_Sholto says he’s a perv._

 

Ah, and so it began — the judging conclusions, the glares, the questions, the concerns. Frankly, John didn’t want to deal with any of them. Whether they were genuine or simply itching for drama. John scoffed internally and held back an eye roll. 

 

_Because Sholto’s a narrow-minded arsehole._

 

When Greg didn’t respond for a good while, John sighed and shook his head, fingers dancing against the screen’s keyboard. 

 

_And why the fuck would he say that? Sherlock’s never done anything to him._

 

The reply came quickly.

 

_You sure you’re just mates?_

 

John blinked. 

 

_The bloody hell is that supposed to mean?_

 

 _Well, he’s gay, ya know? You just might want to make sure he knows you’re just mates too._  

 

That made him angry — infuriated, entirely and thoroughly outraged because how _dare_ Greg? His sexuality wasn’t even part of the question; he said it as though Sherlock was going to spring round and start groping his arse — honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d even mind all that much. So what did that say about _him_? He was so tired of simple-minded youths, their eyes judging and perceptive, every move of someone different posing as some sort of threat to their very reputation. Was it so very bad to be original these days? Unique?

John wasn’t frowned upon because he preferred apples over strawberries. So why did it matter if Sherlock preferred boys over girls?

Considering how his dad still treated Harry for simply being in _love_ — tossing her aside as though they no longer shared the same blood, refusing to accept her simply because she kissed _women_ instead of _men_ — John was absolutely fuming. 

With an angry sigh, he slammed his thumbs against the keyboard, eager to declare the conversation thoroughly over. 

 

_I’ll see you at practice on Monday, Greg._

 

And with that, he shoved his phone away and ignored any further vibrations, listening instead to the teacher and quietly observing Sherlock in his peripheral vision. 

The boy was taking entirely lazy notes in a small, spiral notebook, clearly unbothered by whatever it was their maths professor was going on about — logarithms or something — as he rested his cheek on his palm. John thought he looked especially intriguing, his eyes relaxed and not so overwhelmed by intense concentration or focus, his curls a bit messy from today’s rather nippy winds, his long, slender fingers moving just slightly with the path of his pencil.

John smirked and reached for his own writing utensil, grabbing a ballpoint pen out of his bag and leaning further towards Sherlock, discretely lifting his hand to Sherlock’s paper and drawing out a blank grid. The brunette drew his head up from where it rested on his palm and stared at John with narrowed eyes, one brow arched in utter bewilderment before John added an ‘X,’ to one of the small squares. 

The boy beside him suddenly took on a look of utter determination, and John watched as Sherlock Holmes became completely and utterly consumed by a simple game of Knots and Crosses. 

 

* * *

 

 **Twitter User:** _watsonmyface_

 

John H. Watson

_Stick around if you want to know what’s on my face today. :)_

 

 _Following_ : 38

 _Followers_ : 15,693

 

 

 _Retweeted_ by _John H. Watson_

 

> Elliot J. _@theofficialelliot:_ “Physical attractions are common, but a mental connection is rare. Embrace said rarity — for it is far more powerful than the will of the body.”

 

John H. Watson: New video tomorrow, mates. x

 

 

> Lady White @ _gimmeawforwatson_ : fuck yeah
> 
> Jane Watson @ _ilovehisface_ : I love you
> 
> Bunny @ _honeyandtea_ : ah exciting! 
> 
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> 
> Beeface for days @ _yourotpismyotp_ : I swear to god if the Bee comments on it again I’ll lose my shit. 
> 
> _Load 4,567 more comments…_

 

* * *

 

“You clearly cheated,” Sherlock announced as he and John walked next to one another down one of the school’s many corridors, his head held high, his heart practically leaping out of his chest at the mere fact that John hadn’t left his side all day, apart from their separate classes. God, he _loved_ it. 

“ _Cheated_?” John gaped, laughing incredulously as they approached his locker, “How the hell do you cheat at Knots and bloody Crosses?” 

Sherlock flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture whilst watching John grab his copy of Romeo and Juliet and his rather large history book, obviously for whatever homework he had assigned over the weekend, “You used all those horrid techniques.”

John blinked, narrowed his eyes, thought for a moment, and then gazed back at Sherlock amusedly, “Yes, Sherlock, that’s called strategizing.”

Before Sherlock could come up with a valid retort, a small, mousy voice called out John’s name, and he turned to see the same girl from the rugby match jogging over to the both of them, her chestnut hair flowing naturally behind her, the entirety of her figure clad in only pastel shades — pale pinks and creamy yellows. _Macey? Milly?_

“Molly,” John grinned at her, and Sherlock nodded slightly in recognition, watching as she approached the rugby captain and threw an arm around his shoulders, a bright smile lacing the pale pink hue of her lipstick coated lips. 

Much to his own resentment, he felt a spark of pure and simple envy fizzle in the depths of his gut, his vision tinting faintly green as he stared at the girl — he knew they simply weren’t involved, and never would be, John thinking far too highly of her as a best friend. But he couldn’t help but be jealous of their closeness, of the ease in which she touched him, in which he greeted her. 

“Hey, Sherlock,” Molly squeaked his way, beaming kindly.

He bobbed his head at her in response, his lips quirking half-heartedly at their corners in order to form some sort of polite regard back. She seemed to accept the gesture, her features softening and brightening an inch before she turned back to John, eyes alight with excitement and intrigue. 

“So,” She giggled, “find anything yet?” 

John sighed and shook his head, looking down and swallowing, “Not yet, Molls.” 

She simply shrugged a shoulder and shoved him gently to the side, “No worries. We just need to keep digging.” 

With narrowed eyes, Sherlock took a slow step forwards, clearing his throat and staring at the two of them in confusion, “Digging for what?”

John turned to him with a shy smile, his cheeks shifting to a faint pink as he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck, “Well, Molly and I are trying to find this anonymous YouTuber.” 

Sherlock’s heart dropped from where it sat beneath his skin, thumping rapidly, his veins going cold with panic, his eyes widening a fraction as he glanced back and forth between the two.

Somehow, his voice hoarse and shaky, he managed to ask, “Who?”

Molly was positively glowing, hair flying forwards along with her as she animatedly answered, “ _Theballetbee!_ Oh, he’s absolutely incredible, Sherlock. Does ballet and plays the violin; John and I have watched him for an age now, and —“

But Sherlock had already stopped listening. Instead, he was focusing on remembering how to breathe. John was _investigating_ him? Truly and properly _investigating_ him? He supposed it explained why he’d come crashing into the ballet studio the other day — any sooner and Sherlock would’ve been utterly and unexpectedly outed. It had been too close a call. And, _no, no,_ God _no_ — John could _never_ find out. _Never_. No one could. John would tell his friends, his friends would tell the entirety of school and soon social media would be enlightened to his true identity; the very thought was his worst nightmare. 

As _theballetbee_ , he was _confident_ , something _new_ , something _mysterious_ , something completely different from who he _truly_ was; to the internet and his subscribers he symbolized an entirely new species of human. Because there, he was _perfect_. There, he didn’t have all the flaws of being a human, all the struggles of day to day life in secondary school, the worries of eating, sleeping, drinking right, the faulty means of socializing or making _friends_. 

Theballetbee was a man who danced and composed — and nothing more. 

If he were revealed, he would humanize the very concept of who he set out to be. 

 

With a deep breath and a nod of his head in both Molly’s and John’s direction, he stated a sharp, “Good luck with your digging then,” and turned to leave, body hunched and guarded, expression a mask of simplicity. 

“Sherlock!”

He heard that warm voice once more, and his heart swooped upwards, reviving itself, thumping hysterically against its bodily prison. Turning slowly, faced void of all emotion that may give himself away, he faced John, of whom simply waved, beaming brightly at him and calling out, “Have a good weekend, yeah?”

With another nod, he turned and hurriedly headed towards the school’s exit. 


	11. Pins and Needles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: abuse, mention of sexual assault.
> 
>  
> 
> Hello lovely readers. x
> 
> So sorry again for the waits. The past few wigs have been hellish and terribly busy.  
> You all know that my best friend passed away so it's been very difficult for me lately, however I am still pushing on and hell, it's a new year. So, Happy New Year, mind you. And Happy holidays, since I missed you all on that.
> 
> Anyhow, this is a longer chapter than usual, so I do hope you enjoy it.  
> Thank you so much for all the support. 
> 
> Enjoy Pins and Needles! I am so very thankful to all of you for reading this far and sticking by me. :)  
> Much love and all the best.

Sherlock was interrupted from his reading by the harsh ringing of the ancient, far-too-large house’s irritable doorbell, loud chimes sending him to his feet, down the stairs, and in front of the shiny, elegant handle. But before he could even touch the thing, it began to open, slowly, carefully, and a hand crept its way around the slab, followed by a face, warm and kind and lit by yellow and orange and red as the dimming sunlight graced its features. John Watson’s ocean blue eyes shone like moonlight caressing the sea, and he stepped forwards, smile stretching those truly brilliant lips and body clothed to perfection, rugby jacket thick on his shoulders, jeans and a simple white tee beneath. 

“John?” Sherlock uttered, head tilted in confusion, mind whirling because why was John here, why was he in his house, why was he grinning at him like that?

“Sherlock,” that soft, gentle voice beckoned, and the nimble genius felt himself stepping closer, the inches between them shortening. But then John beamed brighter and softly leaned forwards, brushing the top of his ear with his lips and stating, gently, “I know who you are.”

Sherlock froze, a shiver running down his spine as he pulled back slightly and looked up into pools of blue, “What?”

John nodded, and Sherlock could have sworn those lips brushed the side of his neck.

“Little bee."

Sherlock swallowed thickly and shut his eyes tight, panic rising in his gut, rapid heartbeat shaking his thin  frame, mind boggled by the very idea that John knew who he was, John knew what he did behind closed door; the anonymity was broken, the mystery, the secret, and yet John was here, mere inches away. 

And, _Christ_ , was that a hand on his arse? Sherlock balked, the blood in his veins going cold with loose nerves, unsure of what to do, of what to say, of how to reciprocate, uncertainty written in the etchings of his features. Why was John touching _him_? Why would he possibly want _him_? He glanced down, shaking his head, cheeks suddenly hot, before a finger slipped under his chin and he lifted his eyes to those two oceans before him. There, John was smiling, wide and bright, eyes glowing, expression entirely void of any and all bad emotions — he looked entirely and utterly weightless, standing there in front of Sherlock, pupils dilated, the only creases lining his face joyous and telling, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes with the lift of his lips. 

“Take him and cut him out in little stars,” John whispered, hands moving along Sherlock’s back, up his spine towards his shoulders, palms running against each curve, each muscle, each bone, nimble fingers caressing in further detail, intricacy lined with grace and gentle intent, before those same, soft hands moved up to gently cup the sharp form of Sherlock’s jaw, “and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with the night.”

Sherlock felt dizzy, heart hammering against his mere shield of skin, pulse thrumming against his wrist, his neck; he shut his eyes and leaned forward a little further, giving in to temptation, giving in to what his stupid, bloody heart has been asking for — begging for. With the simplest of movements, he pressed his head against John’s and let out a shaky breath, “And pay no worship to the garish sun.” 

A laugh escaped the blonde’s already parted lips, and he pressed even closer, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine, “You did do the reading then.” 

Sherlock cracked a small smile as John’s eyes met his, blue clashing with silvery green.

“Or,” John smirked, mouth suddenly much nearer, “you secretly love Romeo and Juliet.”

“Definitely not the latter,” Sherlock gasped out, voice hoarse with nervousness want and desire, their heads tilting, their lips drawing closer, their bodies meeting, warmth pressed against him, strong and grounding and exhilarating and — 

 

In the end, it was the pinging of Sherlock’s text alert that sent him flying forwards out of his bed, heart beating unnaturally fast, thin form cold and, not surprisingly, missing a John Watson — though, he had been gifted with the beginnings of a morning hard-on. “Wonderful,” He snapped quietly to himself and took a long, calming breath. How pathetic — the mere thought of John Watson touching him, his fingers on his skin, warm and soft and gentle; Christ, he was losing his bloody mind, how entirely unacceptable. 

With a growl and a shake of his head, he reached over and grasped his phone, tapping the screen lightly and wincing a bit as the bright light of the screen flashed before his eyes. He swallowed thickly at the message floating there, atop the blue of his plain, unimpressive screensaver, and the four letters that made up a name so very infuriating nowadays. 

 

_Morning, genius. :)_

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile down at his mobile, his fingers clutching it just a bit tighter and his heart swelling for a few mere moments, before he let his thumbs dance across the keyboard. 

 

_Good morning, John. -SH_

 

Pleased with waking to the words of John Watson, Sherlock stretched and slipped out of bed, running a hand through his ruffled curls as he made his way towards his bathroom, sliding out his door and crossing the hall, striding sleepily into the tiled room and letting out a yawn as he turned to face the mirror. With a sigh, he looked at himself carefully. Bags under his eyes — obviously from his lack of sleep; he’d been up all night testing the amount of time it takes for certain tea leaves to dissolve in a heavily sweetened cuppa. Green, and yellow, surrounded the area beneath his bruised brow — healing steadily from the fist to his features early on in the week. Mouth pale and lacking hue, a single slit running across the side of his bottom lip  — the cold vanquishing the color, and Sebastian’s follow-up rugby beat down still a reminder on his face. His hair was bunched up and tangled — he’d always been a heavy, toss and turner — and his cheeks looked far more hollow than usual — when had he last eaten? 

Luckily the sight of himself had dulled any sense of arousal from earlier that morning. 

“Oi,” He heard yelled from the other end of the bathroom door, a fist pounding against the wood, “Sherl!”

Sherlock held back a groan, throwing his head forwards and pressing his palms against the sink, hair hanging down across his forehead as he shut his eyes and softly mumbled back a response, heaving out a weak, “What?” 

The pounding stopped, and the voice replaced it in volume, loud and booming, angry — per usual — and utterly cold, “The fuck you doing in there?” 

Rolling his eyes and letting out a huff, Sherlock lifted his head and snapped out a sharp, direct, “What do you think?” 

He heard the rage-filled intake of breath, before a foot kicked hard at the door, a snarl sliding from his uncle’s lips, “Don’t you dare mouth off to me, boy.” 

With a shake of his head, Sherlock reached for the handle and yanked open the door, coming face to face with Siger, the man looking tall, looming over him in his white button down complete with alcohol and nicotine stains. “Don’t ask stupid questions then,” he growled back at the man of whom was supposed to be his guardian of a sort, his voice wavering slightly before he moved to slip past him. 

Before he could disappear into the security of his bedroom, he felt a hand grip his thin wrist, fingers pressing hard into his skin, nails digging against bone like proper bee stings, sharp and ruthless. He grimaced at the feeling, trying, fruitlessly, to snatch back his arm, biting his lip so hard he could taste blood, turning the entirety of his body back to his uncle, and staring him dead in the eye as he glared back, features unforgiving. 

“Say that again to me, _fag_ , and see what happens,” Siger practically roared, grip tightening. 

Sherlock swallowed, dropping his eyes, and then fixing them back onto the man before him, taking in the cold, detached twist of his features, the horrifying mix of amusement and impatience. And yet. 

“I do loathe repeating myself,” Sherlock uttered bitterly, trying again, desperately, to yank his throbbing wrist from its brutal confines. 

His uncle laughed, the sound bellowing out around the two of them, loud and terrifying, nightmarish to Sherlock’s ears as his uncle only held on tighter, and, with one pull, brought Sherlock up and into his face, where he could properly witness his glare, the stench of his putrid breath — cigarettes and heavy liquor — and the pure hatred in his dull eyes. 

“You’re pushing your luck, kiddo,” His uncle whispered, a devastatingly ominous smirk lining his lips, and his hand twisted against the skin of Sherlock’s wrist. 

“Let go,” Sherlock mumbled, dropping his eyes now, submission in the depths of his entire stance, of his cowering expression. 

With a sneer, Siger let out a scoff, “You’re pathetic, you know that?”

Sherlock held his breath. 

“Do you know that?” His uncle snapped again, yanking Sherlock to the side in one solid pull. 

Sherlock nodded instantly, shutting his eyes and swallowing, letting out a shaky, “Yes.” 

Satisfied, his uncle dropped his wrist and chuckled as Sherlock quickly cradled it to his chest, wincing a bit as he saw the red, raw, already forming marks pressed into the pale shade of his skin. He turned towards his bedroom and made to disappear, holding the door with his good hand and preparing to close it behind him before his uncle grunted out, “Sunday tomorrow, yeah? Don’t be here.” 

And with that, he turned and sauntered proudly away, fingers trembling with the obvious urge to fulfill his alcoholic tendencies, the urge to dull an addictive sensation. 

Letting out a sigh and holding back a whimper, Sherlock slammed his door shut and ran to his bed, throwing himself onto the unmade sheets, and hiding his face in a soft, white pillow. Sunday’s — they were the days Siger invited over several of his truest friends, offered them the best scotch, let the lot of them heave a number of cigars, and then sat around, for hours, for what felt like lifetimes, playing poker and yelling about sex, drugs, crime, politics, and their own misfortunes. There was a time when Sherlock had, in fact, been allowed to stick around. He’d hidden in his room, ceased to come out unless it was truly dire. 

But, apparently, he’d made the mistake of grasping Charles Magnusson’s attention, the man, according to what he’d overheard time and time again, a warlord in the journalism industry, wealthy and powerful, owning his own paper, printing the stories he wished and somehow having the means of acquiring information that mere ordinary folk could not. And, from what Sherlock had deduced himself, a desperately closeted homosexual, with a history of sexual assault. 

He was one of his uncle’s closest friends, managing to make nearly every Sunday get-together without delay, always sat drinking a glass of whiskey, readjusting his glasses and excelling at their poker game. Occasionally, when Sherlock had been allowed residence in their home during said poker games, he’d slip out of his room for nourishment, or hydration, sometimes even for bits and bobs that may help in satisfying missing components of his experiments. The men gathered around the table had always stared, always judged, nudging his uncle and cracking a joke or two, insulting and cruel, most of which Sherlock had learned to ignore — however, Magnusson did not. Charles Magnusson simply stared, eyes like slits, narrowed and curious, raking over the entirety of Sherlock’s nimble form. Why the man had taken a liking to him — skinny, oddly structured, alien-featured, and pale — he’d never know.

Somehow his uncle had noticed far before Charles could even think about making a move; he’d given Sherlock a right and proper slap that night, yelling spiteful words, calling him a pervert and a fairy, blaming him for catching Magnusson’s eye, rather than Magnusson for even looking. 

And so, he’d been right and properly banned from strolling about anywhere near the property on Sunday’s, exiled from his own home, and he didn’t overly mind; hell, he ought to be thankful toward his uncle — far worse could happen if he managed to find himself in a room alone with Charles Augustus Magnusson. However, it still didn’t change the fact that finding something to do was far more tricky than he’d like. Most Sunday’s he’d sit in the small coffee shop near Baker until it closed, or he’d find a studio to rent out or hijack for the time being, or he’d merely sit in the park, deducing people and smoking cigarettes till he finished the pack and there were no longer any people to deduce. 

But, it just so happened that _now_ , he had another option. 

He lifted his head and ran a hand through his curls, grabbing for his phone and glancing at the screen, spotting his missed messages and clicking on John’s contact hurriedly, as though, in any moment, they may disappear. 

 

_Glad it’s finally the weekend, aren’t you?_

 

Sherlock smiled softly and then read the next message, only shortly after it. 

 

_Sherlock? You okay?_

 

Swallowing thickly, he tapped to form a new message and quickly ran his fingers over the keyboard, heart racing with frazzled nerves, his body still shaking with the force of his uncle’s wrath, wrist still throbbing, and mind still anxious over the fact that he was actually asking something of John — something he definitely did not deserve the luxury of. 

 _Come on, Sherlock Holmes, for fuck’s sake,_ he snapped at himself. He just had to ask. That was all. Simple. Easy. Polite. They could hang out, Sherlock could talk to John for a bit, allow his uncle time to calm down, time to drink himself unconscious, and then he’d sneak back in and come up with something to do on his Sunday-away-from-home. Good. Fine. Grand. _Ask_. 

 

_John, can we_

 

Sherlock shut his eyes a moment before wincing as he continued. 

 

_hang out? -SH_

 

For once, he didn’t feel like the clever one. 

He watched as the ellipsis at the bottom of the screen danced to signify John currently forming a response, the three dots teasing him as they shook in their gray hue. 

 

_How could I possibly say no to that? Course we can. Want me to pick you up? :)_

 

And yet again, Sherlock was taken by surprise, John’s warmth and kindness clutching the width of his heart and grasping it tight, squeezing it till it was bursting, his cheeks falling pink, his lips lifting into a smile, and his legs shaking with a mix of both enormous love for the boy and utter nervousness. 

 

_You must gain control over your consistent use of emoticons. -SH_

 

Sherlock smiled shyly to himself and shook his head in amusement, before quickly adding to his response. 

 

_But yes, if you don’t mind the drive. -SH_

 

 _Sherlock Holmes, I’ll be at yours in 20._  

 

 

 

* * *

 

 **Twitter User** : _watsonmyface_

 

John H. Watson

_Stick around if you want to know what’s on my face today. :)_

 

 _Following_ : 38

 _Followers_ : 16,779

 

John H. Watson: Hell, today is going to be a mighty fine day. :)

 

> Lady White @ _gimmeawforwatson_ : oooooh whys that? 
> 
> Jane Watson @ _ilovehisface_ : aw something special planned?
> 
> Bunny @ _honeyandtea_ : ah can’t wait for your new video!
> 
> Abigail W. @ _abbysmithh_ : oh shit
> 
> Emily Jacobs @ _emjac2002_ : akhiuhidunvkjeh why?
> 
> Beeface for days @ _yourotpismyotp_ : you’re making me excited what is going on
> 
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> 
> _Load 7,890 more comments…_

 

 

Retweeted by _John H. Watson_

>  
> 
> RS @ _theofficialrichsik_ : “You could drown in those eyes, I said,
> 
> so it’s summer, so it’s suicide,
> 
> so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.”
> 
> -Richard Siken

 

* * *

 

When John’s clanky, old Toyota pulled up into the driveway of his far too large abode, Sherlock hardly spent much time dwelling on his front doorstep — he shoved his phone in his front pocket, glanced over his shoulder as he slammed the front door, and jogged toward to the ancient vehicle. 

John watched, amused, as Sherlock slid into the passenger seat, his curls seeming somewhat in disarray, the tall, skinny boy dressed in a baggy, black jumper — obviously in an effort to keep warm against the cool winds of London’s current weather — and thin, skin tight jeans in a dark, faded grey. He looked — _well_ , John mused — utterly _lovely_ ; John took it as a rare sight, seeing Sherlock a bit unkept, mop of hair clearly unbrushed, nose a bit red from the chill. With a smile, he greeted his friend, watching as he let out a huff and fell back against the leather car seat. 

“Alright?” John scoffed, laughing softly under his breath and beaming brightly, warmly, heart racing just a bit at the sight of Sherlock Holmes only a mere few inches away. But John’s grin instantly dropped when Sherlock finally turned his way, expression momentarily so pained that John had gone rigid with worry — for a second, Sherlock’s eyes had taken on a glassy, exhausted appearance, and his lips had curved downwards, tense and upset, trembling and unnerved, but then? Like the snap of two fingers, it was gone, completely vanished, a mask replacing it, firm and normal and _fine_. John loathed the fact that Sherlock even need be so very guarded. 

“Hey,” He mumbled softly, narrowing his eyes and placing a gentle, soft hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt the boy twitch and watched as Sherlock glanced back over at him, brow arched questioningly, as though nothing was the matter, as though he’d never even dropped that bloody mask for a second. 

John’s blue eyes fell warm and kind as he stared at the other boy, expression soft, gentle, coaxing and soothing whilst Sherlock remained withdrawn, features almost shy in a desperate attempt to block whatever emotions, whatever sentiment, was trying to get out.

And then, Sherlock shrugged, effortlessly, as if he didn’t care, as if it didn’t matter, his shoulders rising and falling with practiced ease, and he lifted a hand to his curls, ruffling them about in an attempt to look casual — though John saw it as anxious. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he waited for Sherlock to say something — _anything_ really — until he noticed several bruises lining the pale shade of his wrist, the sleeve of his jumper sliding down just slightly with the lift of his arm. 

Freezing at the sight of more bruises on a boy who was a frequent receiver of such, John swallowed and cleared his throat, expression still easy, still tender. Carefully, John lifted a hand and pointed, softly, at the being’s wrist, head tilting to the side as he asked, slowly, “What happened there?”

Instead of a proper answer, of something John could work with, help with, Sherlock merely gazed down, grabbed his jumper sleeve and yanked it completely and utterly over the entirety of his pale limb, only his fingertips peaking out of the black fabric, before he turned away and out the window, throat bobbing while he swallowed.

Taking the hint, John nodded and put his hands up in gentle surrender, his features twisting to form another proper smile, “Right. Sorry.” 

He started up the car and, in an attempt to lighten the mood of the situation, even just slightly, John let out a sharp chuckle, regaining Sherlock’s attention and shrugging his shoulder amusedly, “Future doctor, yeah? Can’t help it.” 

And, simply because he could, he took pride in the fact that Sherlock’s lips twitched to form a crooked smile. 

“Tell you what,” John began, as he slowly, carefully, pulled the car out of Sherlock’s wide driveway, glancing over his shoulder and easing the noisy Toyota onto the graveled road, all whilst Sherlock turned to face him curiously in his peripheral vision. “I’m shooting a new video today; wanna hang out at mine? Watch? Can’t say it’ll be very entertaining, especially unedited and all but,” John shrugged, even finding the courage to wink gently Sherlock’s way. 

The boy in his passenger seat brightened, his eyes widening for a moment, his mouth curving slightly at the offer, and his posture straightening just a bit as he nodded and hummed to himself, looking away from John and out the window, “Yes.” 

John blinked, swallowed, and laughed in surprise, “Yeah?” 

Sherlock glanced over, his head at an angle, not fully facing John as he nodded once more and stated, firmly, and confidently, another, “Yes.” 

“Right,” John grinned, facing the road and pushing his foot down on the pedal, the lights of Sherlock’s tall house slowly fading away as they left it behind. 

 

* * *

 

_Channel: watsonmyface_

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* * *

 

Halfway through the drive and the car was still silent aside from the slow whirling of wind from outside John’s slightly open window and the lull of the radio, playing a number of 80s songs John only faintly recognized. He was itching to say something, start up a conversation, get at least a few words out of the boy in the car beside him, but nothing particular was coming to mind. 

So, instead, glancing at the brunette who was oddly transfixed by the others cars slowly drawing beside them, John merely uttered out a delicate, “You know you can trust me, yeah?” 

Sherlock turned, leaning back in his seat and fixing John with a rather strange expression, brows drawn into a frown, features amused yet surprised — shocked, even. 

“Can I?” He responded in that deep baritone, the words rumbling through the dull air of the quiet car, as they cruised through the busy city, the morning rush clearly not yet finished, crowds flowing left and right, crossing the road, disappearing into shops, and cars. 

Placing his foot on the brake as they slowed before a stoplight, John turned a bit to Sherlock, brows furrowed in concern, heart beating a little more rapidly as those ethereal eyes dropped over the entirety of John’s small form. “I’d hope so,” John scoffed, and smiled a less confident smile, the ends curving downwards slightly with the sudden weight of the conversation. 

It was silent as Sherlock turned away again, expression giving nothing away, body rigid and guarded, upright and yet hunched slightly, as though he were hiding in himself, hiding whatever it was that was currently, and most often, making him so very lonely, so very sad. 

Regardless, however, John waited — he would always wait — and simply turned back to the road, following the traffic out of the busy, over-populated area, and back onto calmer streets.

“I don’t know why you bother,” Sherlock uttered, that shield dropping just a tad as he faced his hands, of which sat folded in his lap, fingers fiddling, and, or so it seemed, trembling slightly.

John cleared his throat, staring straight ahead, “With what?”

A shrug. “Asking,” Sherlock murmured, voice deep and muffled by the downward angle of his chin, “if I’m okay, how I’m doing, what the matter is.” 

John gawked a bit at him, his head whirling from watching the road to watching Sherlock, eyes narrowed as he frowned in confusion, before all his features simultaneously softened, a warm smile saving the harsh concern sprawled across his expression, “Because I care about you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock blinked, and seemed, for a moment, completely caught off guard, before he recovered with the clearing of his throat and a swift fiddling of his fingers, still resting in his lap, against the warmth of his thighs, “Perhaps. Doesn’t mean I’ll grace you with an answer.”

John bobbed his head, smile remaining, “Doesn't matter.” 

Sherlock turned to face him, nose crinkled, lips downturned, a proper pout in place, and the small bit of skin between his brows creased slightly — John couldn’t help but be overly fond. 

“Friends ask regardless,” He added, beaming at his passenger, heart swelling as Sherlock’s cheeks fell pink and he quickly turned away, a hand ruffling his already messy curls. 

 

* * *

 

**Tweets** **mentioning** @ _watsonmyface_

 

> Lady White @ _gimmeawforwatson_ : so ready for @ _watsonmyface_ content today boiiiiss

 

> Victoria @ _viclikeswatson_ : I hope @ _watsonmyface_ does some sort of meet up or something one day, like shit dude I’m in the UK and need to meet this human being. 

 

> John is bae @ _watsbeeoverload_ : like we don’t even know what @ _watsonmyface_ is going to talk about today and yet here we all are like practically screaming for a video, I love this fan base lads 

 

> Little Lia @lialovesjohn: daily reminder that I love @ _watsonmyface_ with all my heart and want to squeeze his cheeks

 

> The Theorist @ _discussthemships_ : so lots of #beeface tags going about with the comments between @ _watsonmyface_ and _theballetbee_ earlier this week ~ so many of y’all are practically screaming over this new ship that lacks content. But hey - subtext am I right? 

 

> Trish @ _iliveforyoutubers_ : we don’t talk enough about @ _watsonmyface’s_ eyes. Like, wtf - I could drown in those pools of blue 

 

> A bee babe @ _theballetbabe_ : still so hyped about that little shoutout vid @ _watsonmyface_ did on Bee. I adore the both of them and I legit screamed at my computer for five hours straight mates

 

* * *

 

Sherlock gazed curiously at the small apartment building as John drove into a rather wide parking lot, the tall structure complete with dozens of arbitrary windows and mediocre balconies, the walls of the place creamy in color and a bit grungy with obvious aging. He couldn’t help a smile from spreading across his features at the look of the thing, inexpensive, yes, and not too appealing to the eye, but Sherlock already felt more at home here, knowing John resided somewhere behind those walls, than he ever had in his own house, large and overbearing, lonely and, for him, unsafe. 

“Not much, I know,” John scoffed to himself, and Sherlock glanced over to his see his cheeks tinging red in what seemed to be embarrassment as he ran a hand over the back of his neck and forced the car into park. “But Mum’s a nurse and my sister’s a barista, so. You know,” He laughed and beamed at Sherlock, ever the same warm, kind, gentle expression Sherlock had come to swoon over. 

Sherlock nodded at him, before smirking and allowing himself a short chuckle. He clicked his seatbelt off and shook his head, turning back to the building and shrugging a single shoulder, “I like it.” 

He watched John do a double take as he started to open his driver’s side door, “You — _what_?” 

Sherlock looked away shyly before beginning to exit the vehicle, his heart pounding against his chest as John snickered to himself in both awe and surprise. Closing the door behind him with a faint smile, he followed John towards the building, walking alongside him whilst he clicked the car key, only turning to Sherlock once it had honked in affirmation. 

The dirty blonde shot him a wide grin as he unlocked the entrance to the building, the two of them strolling through the front door and down the corridor as John led them up the stairs and through a hall until they stopped before a small, red door, a number slapped across its rectangular form, and a key slot attached to the handle. 

“Flat sweet flat,” John chuckled as he unlocked and pushed the door open with ease, holding it aside for Sherlock to step through, not helping the already very apparent blush marring his pale cheeks. 

As he stepped inside, his eyes darted over each and every thing he could possibly take note of — the living room was warm and cozy in shades of red and coffee brown, picture frames lined the walls portraying smiling visages, four people stood close together, the faces of infants, a family pet, a man in army fatigues. The sofas and rugs were floral and vintage, decorative prints and designs, along with oak tables and intricately painted lamps; the dining table bore a long table cloth smattered with arbitrary pink daisies, the chairs tucked beneath it covered in soft cushions of rosy hues. Sherlock’s features softened at the look of it all, one long couch and a small recliner positioned before a moderately sized television, a arched, open doorway leading to the kitchen, counters in white and black, tiled and dotted with speckles of gray. It was a home, it was lived in, it was warm and safe and secure and it held dear a family that cared for it and one another — Sherlock’s heart twisted desperately with want. 

“John?” A soft voice rang out that was distinctly feminine, and from around a corridor corner, a small, shorter than John, figure appeared, brown hair done-up in a messy bun, eyes cloaked with black liner, and lips shining slightly with the obvious indication of applied lip gloss. 

Sherlock stood at John’s side whilst the boy stepped forwards, glancing at Sherlock and flashing a small grin — comforting and genuine — as he let out a chuckle and beamed at what Sherlock could only deduce as his sister, “Hey, Harry.” 

“Hello, git,” Harriet smirked and sauntered closer, punching John lightly in the shoulder whilst her eyes remained on Sherlock, judging and careful, dropping from the curls atop his head to the ends of his old, tattered Converse — and Sherlock would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the least bit intimidated; hell, he couldn’t imagine what she must think of him: his eyes smattered in a yellowing bruise, his lip split at one end, his complexion pale, his hair ruffled beyond saving. 

“Harry,” John began, and reached out, his palm hovering over the small of Sherlock’s lower back, just resting there, lightly, nearly touching the thin material of his baggy jumper, “This is Sherlock.” 

Harry’s trained eye followed the extended form of John’s arm before it came to rest once more on Sherlock’s mildly fearful expression, an even wider smirk stretching out across the whole of her make-up smothered features, as she glanced between the two of them. 

“So,” She hummed, “You’re the piece of work then, huh?”

John blanched, a glare immediately taking the place of that warm smile, fierce and dark, a warning of some sort tweaking his earlier sincerity. Before he could bite out any such thing, however, Harriet Watson stepped forwards and held out a hand, beaming brightly at Sherlock, of whom stood, confused and incredibly nervous — what did Harry know? What had John told her? Perhaps she’d been informed of how very damaged and pitiful Sherlock Holmes, the lonely chemistry-loving nut, truly was — but no, John surely didn’t see him as such. Did he? 

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock,” She winked, her eyes darting to John for a moment before fixating on Sherlock once more. 

He accepted the outstretched hand with a small, polite smile, nodding his head at her and clearing his throat, “You as well.” Once he dropped her palm, he glanced at John and found the boy positively glowing with joy as he stared right back, a look of pride — or was that adoration? — on his face, causing Sherlock’s cheeks to fall warm once more, and his head to duck down shyly, finding far too many eyes on him at the given moment. 

“Mum in?” John turned back to his sister, expression taking on a more casual appearance, lips just slightly curved, brows lifted with his questioning tone.

“Neh, just went to _Tesco’s_. She’ll be back in a bit to make dinner,” Harry answered, strolling towards the small kitchen with a bit of a bounce in her step. 

John nodded in response and Sherlock merely stood, watching the confrontation with keen eyes, a frown lining his features as he looked on thoughtfully — had Mycroft and he ever had a conversation similar? Even when his father was around, he couldn’t remember ever being so very _civil_ with his older sibling. Part of him was glad for it, thinking over how very _exhausting_ such a relationship would be — and yet, part of him longed for something of the sort, a bond that implied trust and _knowing_ , a friendship that was made stronger with blood. 

“What you doing, then?” Harry asked from where she stood, hovering over a boiling kettle and practically dumping lumps of sugar into the cuppa she was preparing. 

John’s eyes dropped to Sherlock for a moment, softening, before flying back over to Harry, “Shooting a new video.”

John’s sister rolled her eyes, though playfully, and shook her head, amused disapproval twisting her features, “Of _course,_ you are. You do little else.” 

Sherlock watched on fondly as John laughed and glared teasingly at his sister, the short woman doing the same right back, before he turned to Sherlock with a smile and gestured toward a narrow corridor. The two of them began to walk down the hall, and it was then that Sherlock realized he was going to step foot into John’s bedroom — where he slept, dressed, dwelled, and, most of all, where he sat, at that desk, with that blue wall and those posters behind, and shot the very videos he uploaded to his steadily growing channel. 

The thin brunette held his breath when they finally reached a single door at the end of the corridor, and when John pushed it open, in what felt like slow motion, Sherlock froze and took it all in with observant eyes, categorizing everything — every detail, every item, hue, misplaced thing, all the minute objects that made up the very soul and undertone of John Watson. Sherlock gazed at the desk first — wooden and tall, a computer sitting atop its surface, a cup of neatly sharpened pencils alongside it, books stacked amongst one another with titles like, _“Deadly Diseases_ ,” and, _“The Human Body._ ” He saw that leather chair on wheels, the very same he sat upon whilst he spoke before the camera, spinning back and forth, spouting nonsense that not only hooked the viewer, but captured Sherlock’s heart. He looked further left and caught sight of John’s bed, navy sheets classy and done-up to what seemed like utmost perfection, two pillows sat atop the duvet, and a third in the shape of a small planet sitting between them.

 _Shit_ — Sherlock groaned internally — he could expect his _dreams_ to have far more detail now. 

He felt himself blush as he carried on in his observations, spotting the microphone and camcorder stand sat propped up beside John’s desk; he took note of the — also navy — curtains blocking the bright, afternoon sun from blinding the both of them, and the many paper images stuck to the walls a bit arbitrarily, a photograph of a man holding tight to a gun, an explosion bellowing out from behind him, a picture of the Beatles, looking iconic and poised, and several other faces and bodies that Sherlock hardly recognized. John’s room was warm, just like John, and each and every detail, no matter how intricate, was not overbearing — his neatness was not overdone, but simply comfortable and respectable, things folded how they should be, items not far from their original place, a stray empty bottle of water here and there, and a few used glasses, only adding to the character of the room. 

Sherlock thought it was entirely perfect. 

“Mind the mess,” John chuckled and extended a hand kindly, inviting Sherlock inside as he slowly closed the door behind them. 

Unable to help himself, Sherlock snorted, glancing at John with an appalled expression of both horror and amusement, “Mess? _What_ mess?”

He smiled to himself and let his eyes roam noticeably around the room once more, utterly overwhelmed by how very at home he felt in the small square of space, having only stood inside it for a matter of seconds. _Don’t get used to it, Holmes_ , a voice snapped at him, and he clearing his throat, shuffling slightly in his stance whilst trying to remain expressionless in his more than obvious moment of self-doubt.

John giggled — _giggled_ — and strolled over to the side of his bed, plopping himself down against the mattress, the springs creaking for a moment before thoroughly silencing. And _Christ_ , was Sherlock’s mind in the gutter right about now. 

“Why?” The blonde asked, beaming up at Sherlock from his seat on the duvet, “Yours worse?”

Sherlock scoffed and shrugged his bony shoulders, “By your definition? Certainly.” 

John let out a sharp laugh, amusement in the lines of his crinkled features, “You’re a scientist, you have an excuse.” 

Sherlock felt himself grin, shaking his head at John’s smug expression before allowing himself a small chuckle.

“There we go,” John said next, his voice far softer than before, the kind of tone he’d use to comfort Sherlock or promise him all would be well — the same tone he’d used in the car that night when Sherlock had all but pushed him away with his words. 

Sherlock turned to him, a brow arched, the smile he’d worn after John’s comment still in place, amused and curious, a light pink hue dotting the high arches of his cheekbones, “Sorry?”

“I got you to smile properly,” John shrugged, a grin lifting the corners of his lips. 

Too stunned to speak, Sherlock only narrowed his eyes further. 

“I know your genuine one when I see it,” The blonde added, before bumping Sherlock’s shoulder with his own, winking gently and wearing that warm smile, gentle and inviting, a look that said so many, _‘it’s going to be okay’s’_ to Sherlock he could hardly think straight. 

He gave up on desperately trying to hide his blush, his pale cheeks contrasting only too well with the swell of pinks and reds he felt heating up beneath his skin. Did John really _care_ that much?

Before he could respond to the boy’s bewildering words, John was on his feet, tapping a key on his computer’s keyboard before reaching down and grabbing at his camcorder, placing it gently on his desk, the small, mediocre microphone following shortly after. 

“You need anything?” John beamed politely, expression open and curious, waiting as Sherlock stared back, still somewhat incredulous, a part of his brain desperately trying to keep up with the fact that John was here, real, being kind, and talking to him like he was worth something. 

Sherlock swallowed, shrugged a shoulder and then shyly cleared his throat, “Tea, maybe?” 

John answered him with a happy bob of his head, springing over to his bedroom door and yanking it open with one strong pull, holding it ajar and yelling, purposely loud, “Harry! Make tea!”

Sherlock let out a soft chuckle as the blonde boy turned around and grinned his way, the answering clank of two mugs slamming against a counter serving as his answer, followed by the shrill voice of his older sister, “I already made bloody tea, you great twit!” 

John snorted, shaking his head before shouting back, “Then bring us some, yeah?” 

“You could come get it, you know!” Harry spat out, and then, softly, more quietly, mumbled, "Lazy arse.”

“I heard that!” 

“You were supposed to!” 

When John turned back around, his expression was amused and fond, and he slowly made his way over to Sherlock once more, sitting himself right back down on the mattress of the bed, closer this time, so close, in fact, that their knees softly touched. He glanced at Sherlock, the same twist of features, a look that spoke wonders, ocean blue eyes sparkling just slightly and soft, pink lips twitching in a small, crooked smile. They stayed that way for more than a moment, simply looking at one another, deep navy meeting ethereal cerulean and silver, before Sherlock’s hot cheeks couldn’t take it any longer, and his innermost thoughts were far too close to taking action — thinking things like _oh John’s lips are within perfect kissing distance one little push and bam_ and _Christ he’s beautiful wonderful a simple illustration of complexity within perfection_ was not a good idea; in fact, it was _never_ a good idea. 

“So,” Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, glancing tellingly at John’s camcorder, “what’s the video on?”

John let out a sharp, sweet laugh, before shrugging a single shoulder, “ _Romeo and Juliet_.” 

At the mention of those two idiotic lovers, Sherlock felt his face heat up once again with shame, the thoughts of that morning’s dream rising to his attention, and he carefully avoided John’s eyes as he scoffed softly to himself, “Really?”

“Yeah, I finished the reading last night so I felt inspired,” John grinned smugly, positively beaming at the amusement lifting the features of Sherlock’s expression. 

“Inspired by its stupidity?”

“Something like that.”

The two of them laughed quietly to themselves, staring softly down at their laps before lifting their heads once more, their eyes meeting yet again, the hold far more powerful this time, those oceanic irises brimming with waves, bright and active, and the silver shimmer of Sherlock’s own simply glistening, surrounded by golden speckles, light and unafraid. Sherlock swallowed and held strong, willing his inappropriate thoughts away and looking at his friend — _friend_ , Sherlock, _nothing more_. 

And then John let out a soft sigh, not of irritation or exhaustion, but of mild concern, his brows creasing the skin between them, his eyes narrowing, and his tongue darting out to lick over the expanse of his bottom lip as he slowly, carefully reached forward, his hand, much to Sherlock’s internally incredulity and the rapid racing of his heart, grazing the soft surface of where his jumper covered his wrist. Those fingers stayed there, just resting, directly over those sore bruises, black and blue hidden beneath a layer of fabric, out of sight but obviously not out of mind, a touch so very close and yet so very far all the same.

Gently, as if to not scare Sherlock away, John whispered, voice quiet and warm, “I really hope you’re okay.” 

Unable to process any simple words in response, Sherlock merely stared, blank and utterly taken off guard, his mind in disarray, his heart fluttering this way and that, his veins throbbing beneath his skin, and when he opened his mouth to respond, no words came out, silence floating there between them whilst John’s features merely lifted into a sincere smile — a smile that _cared_ , a smile that _comforted_. 

A loud thump against John’s bedroom door startled Sherlock out of his reverie, so much so that he jolted upwards, whirling to face John’s sister, of whom looked exhausted and slightly perturbed as she carried in two cups, simple in color and design, and placed them down on John’s dresser with a huff.

Cheeks pink, Sherlock glanced at his wrist to see John’s fingers gone, and, though he loathed to admit it, he felt his heart sink just slightly within the confines of his aching chest. 

 

“I feel like a bloody waitress,” Harry spat out, rolling her eyes good-naturedly as she turned to face the two of them.

“Well,” John shrugged and got up off the bed, heading over towards her, and sneaking a hand over to grab the handle of one mug, grinning to himself, smug and clever, “you _are_ a part-time barista.”

Harriet turned to him, her jaw hanging open in mock outrage, “John Watson, I hope you burn your tongue on that tea.”

Sherlock smiled and watched as John grabbed the second cup, carefully sauntering back toward him and handing it over with a wink, eye bright and mischievous, and Sherlock took the tea gently, their hands just brushing as he grabbled hold of the hot porcelain. 

Realizing he needed to thank someone, Sherlock glanced over at Harry and beamed shyly, expression soft and polite as he bobbled his head gratefully — to which she returned the gesture with a warm smile of her own. 

She then turned to John, slapping him across the back, just hard enough to hear a thorough _slap_ , and John let out a cough, eyes widening in both slight annoyance and utter amusement as his sister smirked, seemingly pleased with herself. 

“Clara’s coming over later,” She snipped, heading back toward the door. 

“Right, cool,” John nodded, expression easy and relaxed, the teasing mood lulling to a certain, comfortable calm. 

“Anything _else_ you boys need?” She groaned out playfully, a twinkle in her eye as she pulled open the door and made to disappear behind it. 

“No thanks, git,” John lifted his tea in gratitude and beamed brightly at his sister, and Sherlock watched as she simply rolled her eyes once more and vanished with the soft click of the closing of John’s bedroom door. 

Swallowing, and chuckling lightly, Sherlock looked at John, “She seems like a good sister.” 

“She’s just on her best behavior because you’re here,” the blonde gazed at Sherlock, grinning happily before moving back over to his computer, pulling out his desk chair and planting himself down, tapping a few keys and clicking a few buttons till a program of some sort filled the screen. 

He took a sip of his tea, observing John with vivid fascination, watching as his tanned fingers tumbled over keyboard keys, the way the screen illuminated across the shine of his eyes, the way his hair fell just slightly against the top of his forehead, blonde and simple, yet entirely intricate in its own way — or, at least, how Sherlock saw it. 

“You can be in it, you know,” John stated firmly, spinning around in his chair and smiling easily his way, expression seemingly nervous with some sort of hidden desire, some sort of want for whatever he was referring to. 

Sherlock put the mug down, his eyes narrowing, “In what?”

John scoffed, “The video, genius.” 

Oh, _Christ_ no. _No_. No, not John’s video with his numerous subscribers who were all very vocally unafraid of voicing their opinions; not John’s video where all of his friends, everyone at Baker, the entirety of the world, if they so pleased, could see him; where he would stay, permanently, _there_ , _visible_. No blur, no anonymity, purely _him_ , in his entirety. _God_ , no. 

“No,” Sherlock snapped hastily, “No, no, no. _No_.” 

“Come on,” John whined, lips forming an utterly ridiculous — and, frankly, adorable — pout, as he leaned against the back of his desk chair, “I’ve had Molly in a couple. Hell, even _Greg_.” 

“They’re different,” Sherlock mumbled, a bit desperately. 

“Why?”

“They won’t damage your reputation.”

John stared at him, expression blank, unclear, solidly expressionless before he let out a long sigh and shook his head, arching a single brow and smiling Sherlock’s way, shrugging both his shoulders, “Sherlock, even if that were true, I wouldn’t bloody care.” 

Sherlock looked down at his hands, clasped tightly around his mug, knuckles whitening, and hands warming against the heat of the hot beverage, “I really don’t —“

“Come on,” John begged, not forcefully, simply, with a gentle, imploring look.

“No, I’ll remain out of frame, thank you very much,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Sherlock Holmes. Come on you.” 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

Letting out a final, playfully exasperated sigh, John shrugged a shoulder and glanced back over at his computer screen, grabbing for his camcorder and setting the small device up directly in front of him, his microphone right alongside it. With a single dart of his eyes in Sherlock’s direction, John’s expression brightened into a full — entirely _smug_ — grin, and Sherlock glared back suspiciously, observing with a thrumming heart as John clicked the ‘ _record_ ’ button on his camera. 

This was it. John Watson, the boy, whom, unbeknownst to him, had done so very much for Sherlock in the recent past — before they’d even met, before they’d chatted, or reached one another’s eyes. And now, Sherlock was sat in the very same boy’s room, watching, on the very same boy’s _bed_ , as he created what he did best — as he connected with the world, as he showed the lens of a video camera just who he was; the very heart and soul of John Watson about to be laid out before him — the part of John that made him _John_. 

 

“What’s up everyone, my name is John Watson and this is what's on my face,” John announced, beaming at the camcorder and chuckling lightly to himself, spinning back and forth a bit in his chair. 

“So, I’m pretty sure, if any of you are in bloody secondary school, you’ve had to have been forced to read the infamous _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” John mused, teasingly rolling his eyes, “Now, I don’t have an issue with literature — okay, maybe a small one, but come on mates, it’s _literature_ — and I don’t have an issue with Shakespeare — great lad, wonderful lad, even bisexual according to gossip —” 

John went on, and Sherlock watched, bewildered, heart racing, mind whirling, cheeks reddening, because Christ, John was amazing — he was charismatic and enticing and though he was all of those things on the screen when watching him at home, he was far more surreal, here, in this moment, doing what he loved most.  

“What I do have an issue with, however, is the fact that _one_ : it’s a play, and _two_ : we have to read it _in_ class,” John glanced at his ceiling in mock exhaustion before turning back to the lens, “You know what that means don’t you? That means, mates, that everyone is given parts, roles, characters, and that, in itself, is a bloody ordeal.”

“Everyone is raising their hands, the teacher’s choosing arbitrarily, fits are being thrown, books are being scattered about — it’s _hell_ , lads. But, secondary school is hell regardless,” John scoffed and continued, “You see, you’ve got those groups of people who are so eager for a role it’s almost worrying, waving their palms about in the air, losing their bloody minds over who they want to speak for. But then, you’ve got others who don’t want anything at all, who would rather read along quietly, or hell, just read the entire bloody thing whilst everyone’s arguing over who is who.” 

Sherlock had to hold back a laugh. 

“And problem is, it’s chaos whilst everyone’s _reading_ as well! Everything will be going smoothly and then — uh oh — you get to a character and whomever is assigned to them has either forgotten, fallen asleep, or is texting under their bloody desk,” John glanced at Sherlock as he paused, and smiled wider, “but the worst part — the worst part, you wonderful people — is when you have someone so into their role that they suddenly think they _are_ the character.” 

 

Then, Sherlock’s heart stopped, as John turned fully around in his chair, eyes falling directly onto Sherlock, still out of frame, his brows raised smugly as he chuckled to himself and bobbed his head to the side, “We have a marvelous Romeo in class, don’t we?” 

Sherlock blinked, opened his mouth and then closed it again, body stiffening and falling into full-blown panic mode, eyes widening as John watched him expectantly, and suddenly, much to Sherlock’s own surprise, he cleared his throat and sat up straighter on the bed, willing himself into action. 

“Um, yeah. Yes. God, yes. He’s incredible.”

John let out a sharp laugh, entire expression pleased beyond explanation, as though he had wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to merely say something — anything.

“What he means by that is that he’s awful.” 

“Terrible,” Sherlock nodded, and simply let himself be guided along by the compelling tone of John’s voice. 

“Absolute shite.” 

“Tragic really.”

John snorted and shook his head, glancing back over to the camcorder and winking, “But we won’t name names, of course.” 

“Anderson,” Sherlock coughed, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head simple-mindedly, even if he was still out of the camera’s view. 

“Oi,” John snapped playfully, amusement in every twist and turn of his features, “I have to edit that out now.” 

“Why? It needn’t go without saying that Anderson is frankly the worst candidate to have been chosen for Romeo, though he does have a superiority complex, so I suppose that fits,” Sherlock pondered and then shrugged, “Nevertheless, he only wanted the part to impress Sally.” 

“What? Sally Donovan?”

“Quite. She’s been getting on her knees for him since the start of the semester.”

John balked, his features lifting sky high, his eyes widening, his jaw popping open, the entirety of his position in the chair, still turned to Sherlock, seeming as though he forgot the camera was rolling, “You’re bloody joking.” 

“I do not _joke_ ,” Sherlock sniffed with ease, and found that maybe, just maybe, this _being on camera with John_ thing wouldn’t be too bad after all. 

John huffed a breath of shocked air, “ _Christ_ , I thought she was dating that art bloke.”

“Oh, she is,” Sherlock shrugged, “They’ve been having haphazard shags in the supply closets. Out of sight, clearly.” 

“Our poor janitor.” 

“Indeed.” 

Sherlock stood from the bed and strolled over to John, and, as if by instinct, John scooted to the very edge of his chair, leaving a small ledge of room for Sherlock to plant himself onto, their hips pressed tight against one another, and their ankles hovering near under the desk. He felt himself blush and he looked up into the lens of the camcorder, officially in view, the entirety of his sharp cheekbones, messy chocolate curls, and ethereal eyes soon to be revealed to the public eye — no going back now. _But_ , he mused, _did he even want to?_

John pointed gently to Sherlock, sat beside him on the small, cushioned seat, “Anyway. Onto less gross things, maybe?” Shaking his head, John beamed at the camcorder, “Sherlock and I spent the majority of scene _insert Roman numeral number_ here texting one another.” 

Sherlock hummed to himself before frowning and clearing his throat, “And before you frown upon it, blame John. He texted me first.”

John dropped his jaw playfully and scoffed, “You _rat_. Fine. Yeah, I bloody did, but you’re the one who made me laugh in the middle of Anderson’s fucking monologue.”

“Not my fault you can’t contain yourself.” 

“Right, and it’s not my fault you make good jokes, Mr. _I-do-not-joke_.” 

“I simply said that Anderson was, and I quote directly, _positively awful_.”

John blinked and then let out a single, sharp laugh, “Right. Not a joke then.”

Sherlock smirked, “No, not a joke.” 

With a fond glance in his direction, John turned to beam brightly at the camera lens, his expression lighting up with such intense joy Sherlock couldn’t help but stare, bewildered by those lifted lips, those shining blue eyes — the crinkles beside them a telling sign that John was genuinely _happy_. 

“Well, anyhow,” John inhaled deeply before snorting, “Better to text you than listen to Romeo moan about how he got friend-zoned by some girl he just met.”

Sherlock nodded and rolled his eyes, “And then how he got over it the second he saw another just a slight bit prettier?”

“Exactly. What an arse.” 

 

They carried on that way for what felt like, to Sherlock, not long enough — a mere few minutes of chatter feeling so very sincere, so very right, that Sherlock felt as if he could sit there forever, watching _John_ , listening to _John_ , being within a mere inches of _John_. But before he knew it, they’d bickered on about the daftness of Romeo’s decisions, the very basics of the paper they had to write and the ridiculous requirements of it all — John stating he planned to write his on the strength of forbidden love, eager to win over their literature instructor with a clever topic, whilst Sherlock stated he wasn’t writing his at all _(pointless, idiotic, unnecessary drivel)_ — and the pure talent Anderson held for potential acting opportunities. 

Sooner than he’d expected, and certainly sooner than he’d hoped, John was turning to the camera with a small, comforting smile, eyes sparkling, “I just want to say thank you to each and every one of you for watching. Leave a comment detailing an experience you had, or are currently having, in secondary school, and leave a like for Sherlock’s brilliance.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were definitely a shade of pink at that, and he swallowed, shyly looking down at his hands beneath the desk and the close brush of his and John’s thighs. 

“Say bye, Sherlock,” John smirked, gazing at him with pleading eyes, those oceans practically hypnotizing — how the fuck could Sherlock ever possibly expect to resist this bloody boy? 

“Yes, farewell. Try to be smart,” He stated, staring into the camera. 

John chuckled and winked at the lens, “All the love to every single one of you. Catch you later."

And with that, he pressed a finger onto one of the camcorder’s many buttons and Sherlock watched as the red light quickly vanished. 

He’d done it. He’d just partaken in one of John’s videos, of which would be on John’s channel by the end of the day, of which everyone would be introduced to Sherlock Holmes — one of John’s _friends_. It was all so very surreal, so much so Sherlock’s head was spinning, his heart was beating at unhealthy rates, and his gut was twisting with both nervous excitement and utter dread. 

“See?” John hummed, interrupting his frazzled thoughts, his voice an instant anchor to Sherlock’s rampant mind, “Not so bad.” 

“Until you start getting hate mail,” Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, gazing blankly at the camcorder, of which sat still on its stand, holding video footage of a moment Sherlock would never forget for as long as he lived. 

“Shut up, you,” John snapped softly before leaning the entirety of his weight against Sherlock’s side, so much so that Sherlock had to brace himself from falling off the other end of the chair. 

And _Christ_ , Sherlock couldn’t help himself from closing his eyes, simply reveling in the warmth pressed against his arm, his leg, his shoulder, his hip. It fell quiet, and Sherlock could feel John’s gaze burning through him, and he didn’t want to think about how he might look, sat there, vision black, closed off, expression weightless and soft, a twinge of need and desperation outwardly obvious across the whole of his features. 

“Sherlock?” He heard John’s voice softly beckon, and he hummed in response, waiting as John grunted out a kind, gentle, “How are you feeling?” 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock uttered back a bit shakily, eyes still shut, trying desperately to get his heart rate under control. 

“Since,” John hesitated, “you know.” 

Oh.

His lip, split down the side, his bruised ribs of which still made it tragically hard to do most things without discomfort; he was fine, he supposed. John would disagree if he managed to see the patches of black and blue beneath his thin jumper but all in all, Sherlock was better than ever. Normally, after days or nights forced under the boot or fist of Sebastian Wilkes, Sherlock would lock himself in his room, smoke far too many cigarettes, eat far too little, and sleep far too less — but he had John now. And John made everything _good_. 

“I'm fine,” he answered, opening his eyes and spotting John, close, gazing at him with worried features, downturned and solemn, and Sherlock hated seeing John anything close to upset. 

“You sure?” John pushed, brows furrowing. 

“Yes, of course.”

“Let me look,” John huffed out before reaching forwards and placing a hand on Sherlock’s jaw, to which he flinched away from, violently — not because he was scared, _no_ , but because he was entirely in love with John Watson and the amount of shared touch they were currently involved in was beginning to drive him insane; God help him. 

“Hey,” John muttered softly, as he always did, gentle and warm and bright and careful and cautious and everything that made Sherlock feel as though he were important, as though he were _cared_ for, _safe,_ “I’d never hurt you, remember?” 

And with a nod from Sherlock and a slight wink from John, the blonde placed his thumb on the small gash across his bottom lip, his other fingers pressed lightly against Sherlock’s jaw, sending a shiver down Sherlock’s spine, and pins and needles wherever he left fingerprints. 

Bobbing his head firmly, John removed his hand, placing it back in his lap, and Sherlock instantly felt at a loss — half of him wanted to grab that wrist and put it against his skin once more, maybe somewhere new, and the other was prepared to sprint out John’s door and refuse to look back. Because, _hell_ , he was in way too deep — he was way over his bloody head. 

“It’s healing good,” John beamed softly, leaning back in the seat, that warmth disappearing slightly from Sherlock’s side. 

“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock teased gently, a small smile pulling at the edge of his mouth, and brightening his cheeks. 

“Shut up,” John rolled his eyes playfully and stood, stretching his arms out behind him and yawning slightly, tilting his head to the side, body obviously stiff. Sherlock watched as he let out a deep breath and grabbed for his tea, taking a long sip, wincing slightly at the slightly less than hot temperature.

And Sherlock stared for a good while, deciding, debating, questioning his right to ask, wondering over whether or not John wanted him to ask — because Sherlock desperately wanted to remain here with John. He didn’t want to sneak in and past his drunk uncle asleep on the living room couch, he didn’t want to lock his door and cower in his room with a book pressed to his chest, and he didn’t want to spend the entirety of his Sunday sitting at Speedy’s or alone on the wooden floor of some dance studio — he wanted to be here. With John, and his sister, and their cups of tea, and their teasing and John’s warm smiles. He wanted, and he wanted _bad_. 

“John?” Sherlock swallowed nervously as John slowly lowered his tea. 

“Yeah?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, thought for a moment, and then shook his head, “Never mind.” 

Letting out a scoff and arching a brow, John stepped closer, “Cat got your tongue? 

And Sherlock hated himself for keeping quiet, hated that he couldn’t just ask, couldn’t just say it — but the idea that perhaps he’d possibly be a nuisance, possibly be unwelcome, was too much to risk. So, he’d go home, and he wouldn’t complain. 

“When will your video be up, then?” Sherlock asked, clearing his throat, and running a hand through his curls, ruffling their already messy state. 

“Tonight, probably,” John chuckled, grinning, “after I edit it, of course. Have to bleep out those names, you know?”

Sherlock smirked, “You don’t _have_ to.”

“Sherlock.”

“He does deserve it, they both do. What with the cheating and everything.”

“Sherlock.”

“Plus, it’s Anderson.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock blinked up at him and frowned, “Yes?”

John smiled, grabbing Sherlock’s cup of tea and handing it to him, “Stay for dinner?” 

Sherlock’s heart swelled, his mind cleared, his cheeks warmed and his eyes softened in relief, “I’d love to.”


	12. Kaleidoscope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John laughed disbelievingly, “All I know is you have an annoying brother.”
> 
> “An annoying, fat brother,” Sherlock smirked, eyes sparkling now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad I could finally get this out. My motivation and drive has been severely lacking lately and I desperately wanted to work on this but I couldn't find the time, nor the mental energy to. But here it is and here I am and yay! Longer chapter as well. x
> 
> Enjoy my lovely readers. I hope I still have you all here with me.  
> And do be prepared for heaping amounts of gay to come. (see what I did there)
> 
> Also, there may be a surprise coming in relation to this fanfic, of which I will inform you all of soon, if it comes to par. 
> 
> All the best.

John spent the majority of the afternoon sprawling out each and every James Bond movie before Sherlock, chatting endlessly about their plots, their characters, their marvelous spontaneity. Sherlock didn’t really understand why John loved them so much — they were predictable, dull, a bit unoriginal, cliche — but he listened anyway, because this was John and John, to Sherlock, was perfect. 

It was comfortable, sitting together on John’s bed, legs crossed, shoes abandoned on the floor whilst John pointed at his posters and explained their relevance, whilst he laughed and smiled at Sherlock with that gentle curve of his lips, that light reveal of white teeth. The boy before him was a sight so beautifully built as he sat there, with all his golden hair and ocean infused irises, discussing, thoroughly and passionately, something he loved, something he cherished. And Sherlock couldn’t help but long for, his heart fluttering a the very thought, John to talk about him in that way, with a gleam in his eye, and those pink lips drawn into a purely happy grin. 

Sherlock was everywhere he wanted to be in that very moment, feeling the soft navy duvet beneath his fingertips, hearing the warm tone of John’s voice, learning about the many things he, though he loathed to admit it, couldn’t deduce simply by looking. 

When the rugby captain seemingly decided they should move on from Bond, he began telling Sherlock more personal things. John explained why his sister hated her job at the coffee shop; too many men hit on her there and, though Sherlock had already solved it, men were more than clearly not her area of desire. He also explained that his mother had sparked his interest in a medical career with the stories she told him as a child, tales that enraptured him entirely, of the people that came and went when she worked the busy nightshift at the local hospital; according to John she had tried to refuse telling him all the gory details, but he’d begged her to until she did. 

When dinner time finally came, the two of them sauntered downstairs, chatting amicably with one another, Sherlock a bit quieter than usual, nervous and shaky, out of his comfort zone. But the second he met the woman standing beside the stove, her bags of shopping dropped beside the fridge, he realized he had nothing to worry about, well and truly. 

John Watson’s mother was everything a mother should be. She greeted Sherlock with a smile and a warm hug, a short tap on the cheek and a gentle announcement of what she was making for dinner, before she turned away with a wink and went about chopping fresh vegetables. She looked a lot like John, her hair an ashy blonde, tied up into a messy bun, a fair amount of makeup spread across her face that highlighted the blue of her eyes, more like the sky rather than John’s oceans. She was pudgy and short in a way that suited her stunningly, and her smile was white and endearing, friendly and warm, like the one John somehow managed to vanquish all of Sherlock’s innermost demons with.

Sherlock had watched on in utter fascination as John went about helping his mother, grabbing a few things from the shelves and handing her all the proper utensils, admiring how similar they looked, how close they stood, how warm their expressions were as if there were no heartache or strife between either of them, only good memories and gentle thoughts. John occasionally glanced at Sherlock, shooting him a short wink or a light smile, which always set his heart on fire, its thumping increasing in speed almost instinctively, whilst he sat at the counter and looked on, watching the firm form of one John Watson step about in the kitchen, muscles rippling as he reached for dishes and cups, a sight Sherlock didn’t intend on looking away from until the very last second. 

At dinner, John’s mother asked him all the average questions Sherlock supposed a mother would — _how do you like school? How’d you meet John, then? What do you like to do for fun?_ — and he didn’t mind them, finding the swell of interest in the woman’s eyes compelling, honored that someone actually cared, that someone actually _wanted_ to know. 

Sherlock, of course, gave average answers back — _it could be better, I’ve watched his videos a while, I tend to enjoy chemistry mostly, experiments_ — sitting up straight and eating his food politely, a meal far better than any he’d had in what felt like years, melting on the ridges of his tongue. 

Harriet went about digging into her food with brute force, Clara sat beside her — a uniquely dressed, red-headed girl Sherlock had been briefly introduced to earlier on in the evening before Harry had yanked her off to her bedroom to do God knows what. She was sweet, friendly to each and every one of them, a bit teasing towards John but not half as dedicated to the act as Harry. She wore a bright, flower patterned dress, and her eyes were coated in both heavy eyeliner and eyeshadow, mouth painted red. Sherlock glanced at them often, deducing by their posture that they were holding hands beneath the table, decoding that the two of them both shared the weight of a father’s disapproval, that they both were entirely in love. 

John’s sister bore an odd sort of smirk every time she met Sherlock’s line of sight, eyes darting between him and her brother, as though she were in on some dark secret, as though she held the key to some exciting story, brows lifting smugly, pink lips quirking. It was both unsettling and yet somewhat intriguing to Sherlock, and he found himself wondering whether or not this was simply Harry Watson, or if she actually _did_ know something he didn’t. 

They cleaned their plates, Mrs. Watson offered seconds to which everyone but Harry refused, and soon John was nudging Sherlock with his foot beneath the table, head flicking in a gesture towards the hall whilst he smiled that warm smile, a tell tale sign that they were allowed to go on their way. Sherlock made a point to thank John’s mother before he followed John back to his bedroom, feeling warmed by the wholesome aftereffect of a proper dinner, of a proper sitting-down with a proper family — it was an entirely new sensation, this, and one he never thought he’d actually prefer to hiding within the confines of his bedroom with a cup of tea and an old granola bar. Even before the accident, his father hadn’t ever wanted anything like what he’d just experienced. He’d hire a cook, sit beside the fireplace with a book too thick for one evening’s sitting, drink his favorite liquor, and announce that Sherlock and Mycroft help themselves to supper — Sherlock had always found himself sneaking downstairs at three in the morning and snacking on leftovers, too busy to eat at the right time, or simply unbothered.

This, however, was so complexly different, it had his chest squeezing in want, in need, in a slight bit of desperation.

This was a _home_. Safe and secure, warm and comfortable. A home. John’s home. John’s family. _A_ family. 

John slowly shutting the door behind them, and clearing his throat, eventually knocked Sherlock from his thoroughly fizzled and more than wistful thoughts. He turned and smiled shyly, before plopping himself down onto John’s navy bed, lying flat on his back and letting out a heavy sigh. 

With a soft laugh, John sat next to him, “Alright?”

“I don’t think I’ve eaten that much in a decade,” He admitted with ease, shutting his eyes and staring into the blank nothingness, listening to the gentle breathing and thick tenseness of a body beside him. 

“Good,” John snorted before Sherlock heard him sigh and then felt as a weight dropped down at his side, their shoulders pressed together, hands crossed over their torsos as they both stared upward at the ceiling. 

“My mum seems quite taken with you,” John announced, elbowing Sherlock slightly and chuckling to himself, and Sherlock could feel him shaking his head in amusement. 

Sherlock lifted himself up, balancing on his forearms and opening his eyes to stare curiously at the boy next to him, heart beating rapidly, “She does?”

John blinked and then snorted, bobbing his head and smirking at Sherlock’s amusingly confused expression, “Of course, though I think that’s a given.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” John said, “I’ve only known you a rough week or so and I’m quite taken with you too.” 

The organ banging against his chest increased in pace so ridiculously, he could practically feel his body jolting with the force of it. With a shaky hand, he ran his fingers through his hair and tried desperately to hold back the thick blush forming along his cheeks, rosy pink and telling, apparently, as John snickered and got to his feet in one solid swoop upwards.

Sherlock watched him walk away, swallowing the knot in his throat and opening his mouth slightly, the will to just admit his feelings to John, right there, in the forefront of his mind, stupidly tempting, taunting him with ‘now or never’s and ‘just do it’s. But _christ_ , he couldn’t. He wouldn't. This was the only friend he’d probably ever have, and he was perfect — beautiful to look at, the only person Sherlock ever wanted in his presence, close to him, chatting with him — and Sherlock needed to try his best _not_ to blow it. 

“Do you mind if I start editing?” John asked, interrupting Sherlock’s self-deprecating thoughts as though he somehow knew as much, and plopped down into his desk chair with ease, beaming over his shoulder. 

Sherlock shook his head and mumbled an, “Of course not,” before getting comfortable atop the bed, grabbing John’s planet shaped pillow and placing it in his lap, hugging it close and bracing his elbows atop it, clearly demonstrating to John that he was fine sitting there, watching — and he was. He could watch John do absolutely nothing for hours if need be. 

With a smile, John nodded and turned toward his computer screen, clicking with his mouse and tapping keys on his keyboard, concentrated and thoughtfully as he clipped the video footage and dropped in a musical track of some sort. It entranced Sherlock, how much John seemed to enjoy doing so — Sherlock often loathed editing his ballet routines, whether it was seeing himself on the screen or the act of damaging his self-pride through blurring the lines of his face. He didn’t even listen to his compositions before he uploaded them, instead doing his anonymous editing whilst the volume was muted. 

It was because of how relaxing, how satisfying it was to sit there and listen to John laugh at what they’d recorded, to watch him smile when he edited something perfectly, to hear him hum to himself arbitrarily, that Sherlock ended up curled atop John’s blankets and pillows on the bed, shutting his eyes, sleep deprivation and the knowing tell of John’s presence lulling him into a slumber deeper than ever before. 

 

* * *

 

 **Twitter User** : watsonmyface

John H. Watson

_Stick around if you want to know what’s on my face today. :)_

 

 _Following_ : 38

 _Followers_ : 16,779

 

 

John H. Watson: So cute.

> Abigail W. @ _abbysmithh_ : WHAT IS 
> 
> Emily Jacobs @ _emjac2002_ : OKAY WHOM
> 
> Beeface for days @ _yourotpismyotp_ : SHIT
> 
> Amanda S. @ _givemeanaforarse_ : dont you dare leave us hanging with this
> 
> Jadey baby @ _bluejaytoday_ : a boy??? Please let it be a boy
> 
> Load 12,582 more comments…

 

 

John H. Watson: I, for one, have had the best day. I hope you’re all well. :)

> Lady White @ _gimmeawforwatson_ : oh snap what you been doing then Johnny
> 
> Jane Watson @ _ilovehisface_ : you are adorable and I love you omg
> 
> Bunny @ _honeyandtea_ : aw John thank you, I’m okay but we need the details!
> 
> Emily Jacobs @ _emjac2002_ : what what what what what happened, don’t be ominous John
> 
> Beeface for days @ _yourotpismyotp_ : I guess you can say you had a gay day
> 
> Leslie West @ _lesislesbeean_ : you had a date didn’t you
> 
> Wolfgirl @ _howlatmelads_ : can ya tell us the story of your day?
> 
> _Load 7,242 more comments…_

 

 

John H. Watson: Remember mates, if you’re out camping with a friend, and getting chased by a bear, you don’t have to outrun the bear, you just have to outrun your friend. 

> Lady White @gimmeawforwatson: unfollowed
> 
> Lilly Bird @ _flyhomeflyaway_ : you’re so stupid I love you
> 
> Victoria @ _viclikeswatson_ : I giggled 
> 
> Jane Watson @ _ilovehisface_ : John Watson, you are ridiculous. 
> 
> Gay May @ _gayandilikeit_ : I love you so much
> 
> _Load 8,075 more comments…_

 

 

Retweeted by John H. Watson

> RS _@theofficialrichsik:_ His hands keep turning into birds and flying away from him. Him being you.

 

* * *

 

John let out a long sigh and leaned back in his desk chair, spine clicking slightly from his prone position, before he yawned and stared at his video, satisfied with the progress he was making. Smiling warmly, he turned around in his chair, a question on his lips. 

“Sherlock, do you —“ He froze, staring at the curly haired brunette atop his navy duvet. Sherlock had his eyes shut, his features relaxed and weightless, unguarded, utterly at peace in a way John had never seen them before. His hands were folded around his pillow, tucked lightly beneath that head of chocolate curls, and his pale lips were parted slightly, little puffs of breath escaping and he dreamed on, legs tucked upwards and thighs close to his chest, thin frame looking small on the wide stretch of John’s mattress. 

John beamed at the sight, admiring the grace with which Sherlock slept, the entirety of his body appearing light and soft, not a sign of fear nor distrust nor loneliness present that John normally saw hidden in the mask Sherlock eagerly aimed to put on everyday. The rugby captain turned to glance at the time. Little after eight. Should he wake him? John supposed it would be the proper thing to do; he didn’t know what Sherlock’s plans were, his parents could want him home, he could have other things to do, homework, or chores, or something in the early hours of tomorrow. But selfishly, John wanted to let him sleep, let him doze on until Sunday morning, let him miss whatever he may have to do, because John didn’t want him to leave. Ever, frankly. Sherlock’s presence was not one that agitated John, nor did it wear him out. Sherlock’s presence instead felt natural, it felt right and normal and John was beginning to crave it, crave that laugh and that pointed smirk and that shy glance away and that ever present blush.

Bloody hell, John _wanted_. He wanted desperately, and it was entirely disconcerting. 

With another prolonged sigh, John lifted himself from his desk chair and wandered over to his bed, sitting himself down slowly and softly on the edge before gazing at the sleeping form, allowing himself a small, sad smile. He stared at the bruising along his eye, slowing fading as it healed; he stared at the split across his bottom lip, those beautiful lips. And he glanced at Sherlock’s wrist, exposed just slightly in his curled position, minute bruises lining the pale flesh, thick and dark, and John fell entirely outraged by the sight of them because, well, he wasn’t a bloody idiot — he knew they were from the tight grip of another and John couldn’t help but worry at how telling that was. When would this boy get a break? 

“Sherlock,” John uttered, speaking softly, “Hey.”

Carefully and gently, John placed his hand on Sherlock’s warm shoulder, softly shaking him back and forth and waiting until the ethereal color of those eyes slowly shimmered up at him, eyelids having fluttered open and brows drawing inwards with confusion.

“Sherlock,” John whispered again, smiling kindly and allowing his thumb to softly stroke at the thin material of Sherlock’s jumper clad shoulder. 

“Mm?” Sherlock hummed, blinking sleepily, vision bleary as he lifted himself up into a sitting position; John had to drop his hand, regrettably. 

“Sorry lad,” John blushed a bit, feeling entirely guilty for waking the obviously sleep-lacking brunette from what must have been an enormously deep slumber, “Just figured I should wake you. It’s round eight.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock mumbled, and self-consciously lifted a hand to tame the top of his ruffled curls, “I’m sorry.” 

“Sherlock, it’s fine,” John said sincerely, hoping to reassure, “It’s all fine.” 

With a shy smile, Sherlock bobbed his head and sat upwards awkwardly, crossing his legs and sitting flat atop the duvet, rubbing gently at his eyes and letting out a yawn, a faint blush tinging his cheeks with what John assumed was a hint of shame for having fallen asleep on John’s bed. 

John took a deep, self-motivating breath and uttered out, firm and direct, “You can stay if you like.” 

Sherlock glanced at him through tired, surreal eyes, his curls hanging messily over his brow, his body hunched and slightly guarded, per usual, before he cleared his throat and blinked back at John, as though confused, as though severely perplexed by John’s offer, “What?” 

“The night,” John added and shrugged effortlessly, fighting the urge to pull Sherlock against him and hold him close, so he’d never leave his side again. “You can stay.” 

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock snapped and John’s heart sunk, until the brunette shook his head and ruffled his curls once more, “no, no. I couldn’t possibly.” 

“‘Course you can. Harry’ll be working, and my mum’ll be sleeping. I’m going to be bored to tears; not to mention I’ll need someone to procrastinate with me on that bloody literature paper,” He chuckled and forced a brave wink, lifting a shoulder and beaming brightly at the sleepy genius before him. 

Sherlock stared down at his hands, fingers fidgeting aimlessly as he seemingly thought over John’s words.

“What’s wrong?” John pushed, noting the tense form of Sherlock’s rigid posture, the crease between his furrowed eyebrows, the nervous, skittish way he moved, facing just slightly away from where John sat on the edge of the mattress. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock uttered, clearing his throat and sitting up a little straighter.

“Oh, come off it,” John chuckled lightly, keeping his tone soft and inviting, “What is it?”

When Sherlock didn’t respond, refraining from moving his eyes away from their fixed position on his hands, tucked away in his lap, John scooted even closer across the duvet to where he was hunched shyly, smiling warm and small, elbowing Sherlock lightly in the stomach.

“Hey,” He said slowly, tone hushed and soft, “You’re not afraid I’ll hurt you right?"

John hated to ask the question, worried that, maybe, Sherlock was; Sherlock fearing him, in any way, could not be tolerated, not for John, not this brilliant genius of a human being — John would have thoroughly failed as a person if Sherlock ever found himself hating him. 

“No! No,” Sherlock turned, eyes wide with concern, head shaking and curls bouncing as he lifted his hands a bit shakily, eager to assure John that he was wrong, that he was spouting nonsense — much to John’s instant relief. 

“I,” The brunette’s cheeks turned pink as he swallowed and inhaled sharply, “I trust you.”

John beamed at him, “Good.”

And then Sherlock was smiling back and John felt as though he were soaring, the small curve of those plush lips like a delicacy begging to be kissed but not touched, a look so soft John could sit and admire it for hours, gentle and warm, and so so very pretty. 

“Where will I sleep?” That deep baritone asked timidly, and John’s heart fluttered a bit as he thought his question over, his own solid crush on the boy still making his cheeks warm at the idea of sharing a bed with the slim figure of Sherlock Holmes. 

John shrugged and let out a sharp laugh, sputtering out, “It’s a big enough bed,” before he swallowed a little nervously, chuckling a bit to hide the shaky tone of his voice, and added, “but I can always take the floor.” 

Sherlock stared at him, features widening in horror and frown stretching across his expression as he leaned forwards, gawking at John almost amusingly, “The floor? Don’t be absurd, John.” 

“Well, you are the guest, after all.”

“You’re an idiot.”

John snorted and nodded, lifting his hands in a surrender and grinning at the boy before him, “Alright, okay, alright.” 

He watched as Sherlock’s lips did that small familiar quirk before the brunette plopped back down onto the pillows, his curls sprawling out against the multicolored form of his planet shaped pillow and his eyes fluttering shut shortly after, that surreal cerulean blue vanishing. 

John smiled to himself and slowly got to his feet, clicking his bedside lamp on and flipping the switch to those above them, before strolling back over to his desk, prepared to sit down yet again and finish up his editing of the night’s new video only to be stopped in his tracks by that deep baritone once more, piercing the soft quiet of John’s bedroom, illuminated by a soft, noticeably romantic — at least to John — warm light. 

“Why?”

John let out a gentle, curious laugh, “Why, what?”

“Why are you so nice?” The voice mumbled sleepily back to him, and John felt himself wince at the question, his heart clenching painfully in his chest at how simply it was asked. 

John’s faith in all that was good in the world had been thoroughly crushed by the fact that no one had ever even attempted to understand Sherlock Holmes before — anyone who took the time to would never regret it, not for a second, not when they witnessed brilliance in its purest form. 

Before John could even attempt to respond, Sherlock’s low toned voice had already continued, soft syllables formed with a sleepy tongue. 

“You, with all your ‘ _you can stay’_ ’s and your ‘ _what’s wrong’_ ’s,” The brunette scoffed, eyes still shut where he lay stretched across John’s bed. 

John let out a snort and shook his head, “Is there something wrong with me being nice?”

“To me, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t make _sense_ ,” The baritone mumbled, so quietly John barely caught his words as he spoke them. 

John looked directly at him, expression serious and unmoving, features fixed and focused. 

“Does to me.” 

Sherlock fell silent for a moment, nothing but their soft breathing emanating throughout the gentle atmosphere of John’s bedroom, until he finally cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to softly whisper, “You’re strange, John Watson.”

It wasn’t insulting or harsh or negative as he said it — instead it was fond, his tone admiring, as though John being strange was the most fascinating thing in the world, as though John himself, in all his oddity, was some sort of walking miracle. 

“Cheers,” John beamed and sat at his desk, glancing once more at Sherlock before humming to himself and letting out a soft laugh, “Now sleep.” 

Ten minutes later, John’s phone buzzed beside him, and with one look John read the words that had lit up its screen, his lips curving into a bright smile, the slight shuffling behind him telling, warming his already enamored heart. 

 

_Good night, John. -SH_

 

* * *

 

Romeo, Oh Romeo, You’ve Stooped Low

11,203 views. 9k Likes, 2 Dislikes.

 

Video Description:

_Hey mates! I actually managed to force my friend into this one. Be nice to him, he’s a bit nervous. ;)_

_I do hope you enjoy! Remember to comment some of your own experiences and give Romeo and Juliet a read! (Don’t actually)_

_Cheerio humans!_

_John x_

_Twitter: watsonmyface_

_Instagram: watsonmyface_

 

 

Comments (134)…

 

 _watsonhotson_ : Damn okay now I have a crush on two guys

 _fangirl221b_ : @ _watsonhotson_ okay come on, the brunette is definitely gay

> _watsonhotson_ : @ _fangirl221b_ dont assume things about people my dude
> 
> _msshipshop_ : @ _watsonhotson_ @ _fangirl221b_ you guys are ridiculous

_musicishappiness_ : what a cutie (both of you)

 _twentyonewatsons_ : im screaming you’re both so adorable 

 _k ittykittymeowmeow_: HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT FRIEND

 _septiplierlife45_ : oh no beeface, whats beeface, I only ship Johnlock

> _watsondeck_ : @ _septiplierlife45_ WOW ME

_turnmywatson_ : now kiss

 _alltheyayforthegay_ : John why do you do this to us you’re both so fucking cute together help

 _watsonthemenu_ : hello can y’all date

> _victoriachaselovesyou_ : @ _watsonthemenu_ why is everyone so obsessed with gay couples, like chill they’re just friends
> 
> _watsonthemenu_ : @ _victoriachaselovesyou_ dude I asked politely

_gaysfordays_ : I am here for this

 _balletfeverbee_ : eep cuties!!!

 _watsgoingon_ : I need so much more of this I beg of you

 _holywatsonoly_ : okay firstly, same @ the Romeo and Juliet thing, secondly, we read a Midsummer Night’s Dream in my literature class and it was basically hell, thirdly, is your friend single because damn

 _lilypie_ : omg you need to do more videos together, you’re both freaking adorable I’m living

 _hellomyyellowmellow_ : I cant possibly be in love with two guys, can I? 

 _animegirl23_ : omg I feel the same way John! I hate reading plays in class. We did Romeo and Juliet too and we drew names from a hat and I got Juliet’s part by chance and it was awful. Your friend is super cute btw!

 _abigailsepticeye_ : hey can you give your friend a kiss from me thanks

 

* * *

 

Sherlock didn’t mean to stare. He really didn't, but it was hard not to keep his eyes from fixating on that warm face — solid and tan, almost shimmering as sunlight streamed through the slightly pulled curtains and softly caressed the outmost edges of that peaceful, sleepy expression. How could he not stare? He’d woken up and found John Watson a mere few inches away, curled towards him, head resting on one soft pillow, jaw a little dropped, brows relaxed and features slack, at ease. From what Sherlock could see, he was clad in a simple white shirt, giving his body an air of angelic grace, and grey sweats, hip just poking out the top of the duvet. Was there anything more beautiful than John Watson in the early morning hours of a Sunday? Sherlock allowed himself a smile — the boy was a pure, unadulterated image of perfection, all bronze hair, muscled figure, sweet smile, bright eyes. Was there anyway to _not_ fall in love with him? 

Sherlock glanced away, wincing slightly and staring down at himself — christ, what must he look like? He was sprawled out atop the sheets — he imagined John had probably had to force his way under the covers whilst Sherlock dozed on — dressed in his old clothes, simple and dark in shade per usual, black jumper and grey jeans. His hair was, more than likely, in disarray, his features still lightly bruised — he was positively shameful, pathetic really. John was the sun, shining bright, warm and friendly and enjoyed by all, and Sherlock — well — Sherlock was the moon, forcing everyone into their homes when he arose, souls hiding away from his own dull shimmer, even the many stars around him staying clear of his presence. Lonesome and different, amongst a crowd of normality. 

He jolted awake from his thoughts as he felt John shift beside him, heart leaping about in his chest as he turned back to that face, watching as those eyes slowly opened, led along by the fluttering form of long, black eyelashes, a dark frame around an array of sleepy blue. 

“Morning,” that soft voice mumbled with a happy sigh, sticky with the aftermath of a languid slumber.

“Good morning.” Sherlock swallowed and told himself to stop staring, _stop staring you creepy git,_ but he couldn’t possibly — not when John looked _that_ delectable.

But, one second John was smiling, wide and drowsily adorable, and then his eyes were sliding across Sherlock’s nimble frame — much to Sherlock’s reddening cheeks and clenching heart — and freezing atop his midsection, joyous expression dropping, and anger furrowing his brows. Before Sherlock knew what was happening, a hand was on his side, urgent and firm, and Sherlock quickly flew back in utter shock, heart thundering against his chest, body curling away from John’s sudden touch. 

Their eyes met and within an instant John was retracting his hand, holding it to his heart and looking incredibly regretful, frowning in shame and unspoken apology. Sherlock inhaled sharply and swallowed the fear that had slowly risen from the bottom of his gut, pulse racing, mind whirling in confusion. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered, and Sherlock felt the blood in his veins flow cold when he turned and caught sight of what those eyes had so thoroughly latched onto. His black jumper was lifted just slightly, the pale complexion of one bony hip revealed, matted with black and blue, the aftermath of Sebastian Wilkes’ beating, a far worse conclusion than the one John had, apparently, come to imagine as just a split lip. Sherlock tugged the fabric back over the exposed skin. 

He looked away anxiously, watching as John turned back to face him, lips curved downward in concern, eyes sad, and _Christ_ , Sherlock did not like to see John _sad_. 

“I’m, sorry, just—“ John shut his eyes a moment, gulped, and then gazed at Sherlock once more, expression stronger, features lifted in question, “Did Seb do that?” 

Sherlock nodded his head, once, “Cleats are rather tactful.”

John lifted a hand to his face, “Bloody hell.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine.” 

The two of them lay still, faint chirping from morning birds emanating from the other side of John’s window, a reminder that the world surrounding them continued to carry on, whilst they remained frozen, in their own moment, atop the navy duvet of John’s bed. Sherlock, lying pressed against the mattress on his side, kept his eyes trained on the profile of John Watson’s troubled expression, whilst the boy himself stared up at the ceiling, lying flat on his back, chest lifting and falling more rapidly than normal. 

“Sorry.” 

Sherlock blinked, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” 

“I meant for touching.”

Sherlock held his breath, swallowed thickly, and murmured, “It’s okay.” 

John turned, eyes leaving the ceiling and fixing again, instead, on Sherlock’s own, something hopeful hidden in the depths of blue, gentle and curious, staring back at Sherlock as though he’d said something precious, something so terribly important, and the warmth hovered between them for a moment, a statement unsaid. John quirked a small smile, turning on his side and mirroring Sherlock’s position, tucking his hands beneath his head and gazing pleasantly his way. 

“Shit,” John said, softly. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and arched a brow, desperately trying to force his brain into forgetting how very close the two of them were, and hummed, “What?”

“What color are your eyes?” John asked with a smirk, frowning.

“Blue,” Sherlock replied, pink tinting his pale cheeks. 

“Funny.” 

“Sorry?” 

“They’re more than just _blue,”_ John scoffed, eyes lighting with mirth as he carefully examined the multicolored irises. 

Sherlock inhaled sharply, unable to look away from John’s curious expression, “Are they?”

John nodded and propped himself up on his elbow, “You’ve got a bloody kaleidoscope behind your eyes.”

Blushing, Sherlock shook his head and fell back, lying with his head flat against the pillow, taking his turn to look at the ceiling, all that attention fixed on his every move far too daunting — John would surely see how fucking gone on him he was if he wasn’t careful. 

“Well, you’ve got an ocean.” 

He heard John laugh softly, and felt those very same eyes darting over and across his profile, “An ocean?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, shrugging his shoulders, “Blue. Enormously _blue_.”

John turned onto his back, humming thoughtfully, and lifted his arms to rest beneath his head, joining Sherlock in gazing blankly upwards. 

“Ocean eyes,” Sherlock whispered softly, more to himself rather than John, but the rugby captain heard the hushed words and glanced over, the very same warm smile on that perfectly sculpted, tan face. 

Before those pink lips, that Sherlock so often found himself staring at, could say anything, a buzz came from the bedside table next to John, and, seemingly resentfully, the blonde reached over and broke the subtle moment, tapping the screen of his phone and narrowing his eyes curiously. 

“Greg.”

“Oh?” Sherlock lifted a brow and cleared his throat, glancing carefully over as the boy next to him began typing out a quick message.

“Wants to know why you were in last night’s video,” John chuckled and rolled his eyes.

Christ, the _video_. The thing could have a couple thousand views already and _bloody hell Sherlock was in it and his face and him being himself and holy fucking shit_ this was going to end in disaster for the _both_ of them. 

He swallowed, “Why _was_ I?”

Sherlock watched as John looked up at him, eyes narrowed, a sly smile in place as he scoffed and lifted a broad shoulder, “Because I bloody well wanted you to be.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, _oh,_ ” John teased before slipping out from under the duvet and sauntering slowly over to his computer, jiggling the mouse atop his desk and waiting intently as it rebooted before logging in, clicking a few things, and bringing up his YouTube channel. 

Sherlock observed curiously as he seemingly glanced at his comments, likes, and new subscribers, before smirking and stepping away from the monitor, turning back to Sherlock, still sat atop his bed. 

“Breakfast?”

Sherlock nodded. 

 

* * *

 

 **Twitter User** : _watsonmyface_

John H.Watson 

_Stick around if you want to know what’s on my face today. :)_

 

 _Following_ : 38

 _Followers_ : 20,732

 

 

John H. Watson: How’d you like the new video?

> Abigail W. @ _abbysmithh_ : AMAZING
> 
> Emily Jacobs @ _emjac2002_ : so fucking cute, who is this mysterious new friend
> 
> Beeface for days @ _yourotpismyotp_ : it was gay I loved it
> 
> Amanda S. @ _givemeanaforarse_ : so good I need more of your friend my dude
> 
> Lilly @ _lilypadlad_ : adorable af
> 
> Rita @ _ritawatson_ : it was so beautiful I need more
> 
> _Load 16,422 more comments…_

 

John H. Watson: Sherlock and I are going to try and make bacon, wish us luck. x

> Lady White @ _gimmeawforwatson_ : if you don’t tweet within an hour, I’m calling the police
> 
> Lilly Bird @ _flyhomeflyaway_ : YOU AND SHERLOCK
> 
> Victoria @ _viclikeswatson_ : that’s fucking cute
> 
> Jane Watson @ _ilovehisface_ : bacon and two adorable boys, why am I not there
> 
> Gay May @ _gayandilikeit_ : that’s so domestic wtf
> 
> Little Ben @ _benisgayforjw_ : lucky!
> 
> Beeface for days @ _yourotpismyotp_ : I’m living for this gay content
> 
> Jessica @ _johnlockismykink_ : im already obsessed with the concept of you two
> 
> Chris R. @ _chrislovesjohn_ : I wish I was friends with both of you irl :C
> 
> _Load 17,225 more comments…_

 

Retweeted by John H. Watson

> Hurts Lyrics @ _hurtsthebandbot_ : 
> 
> _But that night, we stared in wonder_
> 
> _Wide-eyed but scared to wonder_
> 
> _The landslide fell silent all around_
> 
> _And it was the same scene from a kaleidoscope dream_
> 
> _You got me spinning, no no_
> 
> _You didn't wake me from my kaleidoscope dream_
> 
> _You got me spinning in your love_

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock watched with an amused smile as John placed a small frying pan atop the stove, his eyes narrowing as he pressed a few of its arbitrary buttons, blinking blankly, clearly not entirely used to the prospect of _cooking_. 

“You seem to be struggling,” Sherlock commented, smirking to himself as John fumbled a bit with the clanky metal thing, his heart clenching with how very cute the boy was. 

“Oi, alright _you_ ,” John chuckled, obviously attempting irritation but far too charmed by the hilarity of the situation. “I know how to cook, _genius_ , but I generally don’t make _breakfast_.” 

“How is breakfast any different?”

“ _Bacon_ is part of breakfast.”

“And?”

“Do you know how _dangerous_ bacon is to make?”

“Dangerous?” Sherlock snorted questioningly, ruffling his hair as he watched John, the boy grinning wildly as he tried to defend himself.  

“It fucking _spits_ at you,” John informed him, and Sherlock burst into a melody of ridiculously high-pitched giggles, trying desperately to muffle them with his hand, shaking his curls so much so that they bounced atop his forehead. 

John, on the other hand, seemed entirely pleased with himself, beaming brightly as he slipped past Sherlock and grabbed out a carton of eggs from the fridge, followed by the raw packet of uncooked bacon. 

“Eggs I can manage,” John snorted, and returned to the stove top, placing the things atop the bare surface to his right, “but what good are they without bacon?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sauntered over to John’s side, leaning against the counter and watching as the rugby captain began placing one strip, two strips, three strips of bacon into the pan, expression concentrated, focused, thoroughly fixated on what his hands and fingers did whilst hovering atop the hot stove plate. 

They were silent for a bit, the mere sizzling of bacon the only real noise being made in the kitchen, before Sherlock swallowed and glanced around, shifting a bit shyly. He took note of the small family photos placed haphazardly about the neighboring living room and couldn’t help the twist of wonder that over took the mellowed structure of his features. 

“Come on then,” John chuckled lightly, not looking away from the task before him, “Ask.” 

Sherlock blinked, and then dropped his eyes to his feet, bare and pale against the flat’s tiled kitchen floor. “Your father,” He began, “How often do you see him?”

“Once, twice,” John shrugged, reaching into a drawer at his side and grabbing out a fork, poking at the frying strips of meat, “sometimes three times a year.”

“It must be hard,” Sherlock uttered softly. 

“It can be,” John finally met his eyes, “but he rings round every once in a while. Mostly on weekends.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking away for a moment before taking a deep breath and fixing John with what he hoped was a soft, charming expression, judgement free and inviting, “Do you miss him?

“Course.”

“But?” Sherlock ventured, quietly. 

John scoffed and shrugged yet again, glancing at Sherlock and wincing slightly, “I don’t miss the fighting.”

“Your sister,” Sherlock uttered, more in conclusion to himself rather than directed at John, but the blonde nodded still, and let out a weary sigh.

“Yeah, and my mum. My parents haven’t gotten on for years. Fallen out of love, or whatever. And my sister, well.” 

Sherlock waited, watching as John tapped the bacon habitually with the fork in his hand before biting his lip and swallowing thickly.  
  
“Well, she’s gay. And Dad doesn’t like that,” John huffed, and, for extra measure, rolled his eyes. 

Turning away from the boy, Sherlock pressed his back against the counter and hummed to himself, biting his lip and toying with an idea in his head. He obviously knew already — hell, he’d met Harry’s girlfriend. But, clearly, John was ashamed of how his father saw things, and Sherlock took it as a sign to be honest, to be open, to slowly admit something small but important, something he wasn’t sure John knew yet or not, what with how many people spread it about the school as though it were their secret to tell.

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t like me very much then,” Sherlock stated softly, tone hushed and shy as the words left his mouth, and, carefully, he turned to glance at John, of whom had stopped poking mindlessly at the bacon, deciding, instead, to stare openly at Sherlock’s timid stance beside him. 

John Watson looked… _relieved,_ and what the hell that meant Sherlock Holmes would never know. 

“Then he’d be an idiot for it,” John said, firm and serious, before he beamed warmly Sherlock’s way, the two gazing quite literally into one another’s eyes. The moment was purely bewildering, their expressions putting forth an air of both desire and perplexity, ocean meeting kaleidoscope, and they remained there, words going unspoken through the lock of their eyes. It was, however, broken by what Sherlock could only describe as John Watson flailing backwards in an attempt to distance himself from the wild splattering of grease shooting outwards from the pan resting atop the stove. 

“See?” John cried out with a fearful laugh, “It _spits_!”

Sherlock let out a loud giggle and threw his head back in amusement, watching as John bravely shoved the pan from its place on the hot seat and took a deep steadying breath, the boy glancing at Sherlock with a smirk and shaking his head. 

“We’re having toast.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Romeo, Oh Romeo, You’ve Stooped Low

20,123 views. 15k Likes, 5 Dislikes.

 

* * *

 

In the end, after much debate — _“You told me all there is to know about Bond already!”,“Okay, maybe, but it doesn’t come close to the real thing.”_ — John and Sherlock found themselves sat on the couch with the very first James Bond movie flickering before them on the television screen. John, of course, was paying rapt attention, chuckling when a humorous comment was made — old fashioned and not entirely amusing at all — and staring with wide eyes when a chase of some sort ensued. Sherlock, on the other hand, was enjoying it far more than he’d ever let on, remaining determined to make sure John didn’t become aware of that little fact and taking, instead, to commenting noisily and dryly — the blonde beside him, to his utter surprise, seemingly finding it entertaining rather than annoying. 

Sherlock felt drawn to this — the both of them sat there, on the sofa, close but not touching, John offering snack and bits as they continued to watch on. It was all so domestic, sharing the flat, Harry working and John’s mother catching up on missed sleep down the hall — it felt as though they were alone in their own little world; Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock; no one else mattered.

After they finished their film — _“I can’t believe you guessed the ending.” “Was no difficult leap.”_ — John insisted they work at least a little on their paper, the days before it was due dwindling steadily. They sat and scribbled and pondered what to write, Sherlock moaning a bit about the stupidity of the assignment whilst John chuckled and nodded in thorough agreement.

Never before did Sherlock think _this_ would be available to him — a _friend_ , but not only a friend, a friend like _John_ ; warm, sweet, caring, friendly _John_ who somehow knew just how to deal with Sherlock Holmes, just how to talk to him, just how to approach him on days he didn’t want to be approached. John Watson was a living miracle.

“What’s your plan then?” John asked, smiling brightly and fiddling with the capped eraser on his pencil.

Sherlock arched a brow, “I’m going to write about how idiotic the entirety of the story is.” 

“What, seriously?” 

“Yes.”

“Not sure Ms. Montgomery will like that,” John chuckled, smirking a bit and staring at Sherlock as though he wasn’t even surprised by his choice.

“It’ll be so passionate she’ll _have_ to like it,” Sherlock stated simply, lips quirking in amusement before he basked in the wonderful sound of John _giggling_ , waiting, naturally, until the boy had stifled his laughter to ask, “What about you?” 

John composed himself and shrugged, “I’m going to write about what an idiot Romeo was to leave Juliet behind in the first place.” 

Sherlock blinked, frowned and cocked his head John’s way, “But he was exiled, banished.”

“And?” John shook his head, “If you’re _that_ in love, why would you even tolerate separation? He should’ve fought harder to stay. For her sake.”

Sherlock swallowed the knot in his throat, took a deep breath and exhaled it shakily, “Surely they’d have killed him if he had.” 

John shrugged once more, “Then at least he’d have died fighting for something important.”

It was in that moment, watching John scribble out a rough draft in scratchy handwriting across the table, that Sherlock knew, or perhaps found the proper verification, just how very good of a man John Watson truly was. And, fuck it all, just how very little his heart would be able to keep up _not_ kissing the sod. 

 

* * *

 

**Tweets mentioning @** _watsonmyface_

 

> Lady White @ _gimmeawforwatson_ : okay the blonde and brunette duo of @ _watsonmyface_ and his friend, where are we on this lads
> 
>  Beatrice White @bbandj: screaming how about you
> 
>  Froggy @johnisbaesobye: losing my fucking mind ha

 

> Victoria @ _viclikeswatson_ : okay to my previous tweet about a @ _watsonmyface_ meet-up, this Sherlock friend better be there because 1. Hot and 2. Gay 

 

> John is bae @ _watsbeeoverload_ : I am LIVING. Has the @ _watsonmyface_ fanbase ever had this much content to scream about? NO. And it’s gay too!

 

> Little Lia @ _lialovesjohn_ : @ _watsonmyface_ is the purest

 

> Liv is still screaming about John’s new video @ _romeoandjohn_ : @ _watsonmyface_ is honestly my favorite youtuber to exist and he deserves all the best things in life don’t even @ me.

 

> Little Thoughts @ _thinkaboutfandoms_ : I still stand by my VERY strong assumption that @ _watsonmyface_ is bisexual, okay bye thanks

 

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock,” John leaned forwards, placing his elbows on the table and setting his pencil down a moment, eyes fixating on the elegant script scrawled across Sherlock’s borrowed piece of paper as the brunette began his third paragraph. John was still proud of himself for even convincing Sherlock to actually _do_ the work. 

“Hm?” The genius hummed, tilting his head just slightly before biting his lip and glancing up at John. 

“Your family,” John started carefully, “what are they like?”

Sherlock froze, swallowing noticeably, throat bobbing, before he turned away and pushed his paper to the side, clearing his throat and falling quiet for a moment. John held his breath, terrified he’d said the wrong thing. But then the brunette sat up straight, seemingly gathering himself, before gazing directly at John and arching a brow. 

“Unexceptional,” Sherlock shrugged, “Why?”

John laughed disbelievingly, “All I know is you have an annoying brother.”

“An annoying, _fat_ brother,” Sherlock smirked, eyes sparkling now.

John snorted, grinning and nodding his head, “Right. How could I forget?”

They smiled at one another for a moment before John pressed on.

“But really,” He took a deep breath and watched Sherlock cautiously, as though he were a frightened cat John had to approach with utter care and soft words. 

“My mother died when I was very young,” Sherlock stated, leaning back in his seat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the lined paper sitting in front of him, as though unable to meet John’s eyes, “and my father was killed in a lorry accident a few years ago. I live with my less than impressive uncle.”

John desperately told himself not to gape at the boy. He hadn’t known the complexity of his situation, his heart clenching with regret for Sherlock, so very alone in a world that hadn’t been kind to him. John internally shook his head — Sherlock wouldn’t be on his own; not anymore, not whilst John lived and breathed. 

“Shit. I’m sorry,” He mumbled, knowing full well it wasn’t good for anything. 

“Do shut up,” Sherlock snapped, clearly with the desire to sound angry, off-put, but unable to carry the tone through, his voice shaking slightly and his eyes sad, “We all have tragedy in our lives. No sense dwelling on it.” 

John nodded.

 

* * *

 

_Channel: watsonmyface_

_Subscribers: 27,546_

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until very late that Sherlock found himself sitting in the passenger seat of John’s old, tattered car, staring out the window at his dauntingly large, lonely house, and dreading walking inside and losing the magic he’d felt at John’s flat, that warm sense of home, security, _safety_. He swallowed a bit nervously and turned to the boy in the driver’s seat, of whom looked back, expression wistful and a bit shy. The two had gotten quite a bit done on their annoyingly exhausting Literature paper, and Sherlock had even managed to say a goodbye and a thorough thank you to both Harry and John’s mother, as Harry arrived home and John’s mother left for work. 

He glanced back over at the dark house, lights off and gloomy, willing it to just vanish, go away. He was certain Siger’s poker friends had left by now and he found himself enormously grateful to John — that one simple act of allowing Sherlock to stay a night at his house would forever mean far more than he could ever know. 

Taking a deep breath, he reached over to unbuckle his seatbelt, clearing his throat and biting his lip, before looking down at his feet, resting against the car’s ancient floor. 

“John,” He uttered softly, voice a bit hoarse as he met those two, shimmering oceans once more. 

John quirked a smile, as those charmed by Sherlock’s bashful expression, and lifted a brow, waiting patiently for him to finish. 

“I—” He paused and grunted out, gently, changing his mind, “Thank you.” 

“No need to thank me,” The rugby captain shrugged effortlessly and Sherlock found himself entranced by the constant warmth in that bright, knowing grin. “Just come back again some time, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, because there was no doubt that he wouldn’t. He’d go anywhere, if he knew John Watson was waiting on the other side. 

“I best be off,” He muttered, tone resigned. 

“It’s pretty late; your uncle gonna be okay with that?” John asked, brows drawing forwards into a frown of concern as he sat up a little straighter in the driver’s seat, gripping tight to the steering wheel. 

Sherlock swallowed nervously, telling himself _John didn’t know, couldn’t possibly know, had no way of knowing the extent of his uncle’s punishments_ , and inhaled deeply, shrugging a single shoulder, “It’ll be fine.” 

John’s frown stayed in place but he nodded and a small smile lifted the corner of his lips, “I’ll see you tomorrow then, yeah?”

Sherlock bobbed his head once in response, slipped out of the vehicle, shivered as the cold bit at his nimble form, and sauntered towards his front door, fighting the urge to turn around, and get right back into the ugly, old car. 


	13. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was like a drug — a genuine, honest to god, drug, and if John tossed him aside now, the withdrawals would certainly kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. An enormous apology for how late this update is. I had the chapter half finished for the longest time but struggled to find time to complete it. A lot of things happened along the way but I won't stand here and make excuses. So here it is! Some big things happening in this one. I just hope you're happy with the ending of this chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy Drowning! (that sounds morbid)
> 
>  
> 
> TW: homophobic language, fighting (kind of), just overall bully being a dick

John parked his car in its usual spot, wincing a bit as the engine clanged noisily before he turned the key and shut off the vehicle, reaching for his backpack and sliding out of the driver’s seat with a bright smile, slamming the door behind him and locking up. He made his way toward Baker’s front gate, running a palm through his damp hair, glancing down and shaking his head amusedly at his ruffled clothing. He’d been running late this morning, no one to blame but himself, having laid in bed for a good few minutes reading through the many comments gracing his new video, marveling over how many views he’d gotten, his growth in subscribers, and laughing at how much of a catch Sherlock Holmes was — laughing once he’d pushed past the initial wave of jealousy, of course.

He beamed, brushed a hand down his maroon sweater and navy jeans, before lifting his head to find Greg, leaning patiently against Baker’s outer walls, staring directly at John’s joyful form approaching. The rugby captain braced himself, swallowing a bit nervously and taking a deep breath as he slowed his pace and allowed an even wider grin to take over the forefront of his features, warm and friendly. 

“Hello, mate,” He said, patting Lestrade on the shoulder but not stopping, knowingly carrying on as he felt Lestrade’s stumpy figure beside him, the two of them heading towards Baker’s front entrance.

“John,” The silver-haired boy beside him uttered, “Can we talk?”

John frowned, glanced at him, but continued on, “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

He felt a sudden hand on his arm, gripping tight and halting his movements forward, and he gazed at Greg in suspicious confusion, arching a brow as his eyes darted to glare at the fingers digging into his bicep.

“What’s going on with you and Sherlock?” His friend whispered, his tone quiet and hushed, as though he didn’t want any passing classmates to hear specifically _whom_ they were chatting about.

John cleared his throat, irritation twisting his features into a soft scowl, “Why the hell does it matter? We’re friends.”

“ _Just_ friends?”

“Why are you so hung up on this, Greg?” John snapped, remembering their brief discussion over text and shrugging his shoulders in both perplexity and genuine interest. He watched as Greg looked away, shame turning his cheeks red as he shook his head stubbornly and let out a long sigh.

“Wilkes is getting suspicious,” The boy muttered softly, brown eyes darting around cautiously before fixating on John once more, concerned and distressed.

“Of what?” He blinked, staring wide eyed at Greg, thoroughly baffled and yet equally trying to calm the slowly rising fury in his gut at the mere mention of that name. He didn’t even want to _see_ Sebastian Wilkes. Not after his last rugby match. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to contain himself —  fists would surely fly if he wasn’t the least bit careful. 

“The both of you,” Greg huffed, “He keeps asking me if you’re _dating_.”

“ _Dating_?”

“He’s saying _awful_ things, John,” His friend murmured, expression pained, and John’s heart clenched with guilt for ever having been the least bit irritated with Greg Lestrade.

“Like _what_?” He asked, brow lifting curiously.

“Saying Sherlock converted you or some bollocks,” Greg sighed, readjusting the backpack strap hanging low on his shoulder and shifting uncomfortably.

“Into what?”

“A _fag_ , as he so delicately put it,” The silver-haired boy mused sarcastically before throwing his head back in utter desperation and letting out an exasperated groan. 

“Christ,” John snorted, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at Sebastian Wilkes and his utter success at managing to be the biggest dickhead the world had ever seen.

“Look mate,” Greg swallowed, dropping his gaze to his feet and ducking his head both shyly and awkwardly, “I don’t _care_ if you’re into him or anything, yeah? Or if you’re, you know. If you like guys, or whatever. I couldn’t care less,” He cleared his throat far too loudly, and John quirked a small smile of amusement and admiration, which thankfully went unnoticed.

“What _does_ bother me though,” he continued, “is Seb treating you like dirt.”

John opened his mouth to respond, but Greg went on.

“I’ve seen what he does, heard what he says and I just want to make sure you,” the boy swallowed thickly and sighed, “you _know_ what you’re getting yourself into, yeah? With Sherlock.”

John scoffed, because _Christ_ , he wasn’t _getting himself into_ anything. Frankly, it was impossible for him to stay _away_ from Sherlock Holmes now, let alone go a few hours without talking to him. John could hardly breathe if he didn’t catch a glimpse of the tall genius at least once in a day, couldn’t function if he didn’t shoot a text to the chemist out of pure need to, couldn’t focus if he hadn’t heard from him in a good while. Sherlock was like a drug — a genuine, honest to god, _drug_ , and if John tossed him aside now, the withdrawals would certainly kill him.

“We’re just friends,” John repeated, somewhat reluctantly, before shrugging his shoulders again and glancing back at the school’s front entrance, knowing the bell would soon ring for his first class of the day.

“Yeah, alright, just — be careful?” Greg pleaded shakily, and John watched as his throat bobbed and his hands fiddled with the straps of his bag.

John nodded.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until lunchtime that Sherlock finally got his daily dose of John Watson, the blue of those eyes, the golden shimmer of that hair, the rippling of muscles that lay hidden beneath the swell of a fluffy oatmeal jumper. Sherlock had gathered his things and plummeted down in his usual corner table, alone and secluded from the rest of the student population, his body hunched over, shoulders drawn forwards as he scrolled lazily through his newest comments, berating himself for the lack of new uploads. It was when he had finally lifted his head from the bright light of his mobile screen that he noticed the rugby captain approaching, all smiles and warmth and gentle movements. He swallowed thickly and watched as the blonde did as he had before, placing his tray down with a smack and sitting effortlessly across from Sherlock Holmes, as though no one was watching him, as though the entirety of his circle of friends weren’t glaring, as though the girls who fancied him weren’t glancing over enviously.

“So,” John smirked, reaching for his carton of milk and folding it open, “I have a question.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, eagerly tried to calm his nervous, rapid breaths, and then tucked his phone back into his pocket, arching a brow John’s way, leaning forward and folding his arms atop the table’s cold surface. 

“And that would be?” He asked softly, blinking in confusion, voice a little hoarse from lack of use.

“More a demand, honestly,” John shrugged, absolutely beaming Sherlock’s way, smug and content, eyes sparkling in their blue hue.

“John,” Sherlock growled playfully.

“You’re going to have to be in another one of my videos,” The boy across from him hummed, shaking his head as though it couldn’t possibly be any other way, as though it simply had to be done. Sherlock gulped, watching John carefully for any sign of fabrication, noting how the boy had a wide, genuine smile across his tan face, how his eyes were brighter than they had been just a moment ago, how he sat, leaning back, before lifting his carton of milk to his pink lips, throat bobbing.

“Why?” Sherlock squeaked out more than a little shyly, feeling slightly out of his depth, the kind of attention John’s videos normally received far different from his own, far more involved and devoted and considerably reliant on comedic and charismatic value. Why the bloody hell would people enjoy watching _him_ be himself?

“I gained over two hundred subscribers, in a night, Sherlock Holmes,” John announced, grin widening with pride as he leaned further over the lunch table, ignoring curious looks from those still glancing over at the two of them.

Sherlock blinked, mind whirling to a halt, body tensing in both shock and utter perplexity — people were subscribing to John because of _him_? _Him_? _Seriously_? Sherlock was so hung up on the fact that John’s newest viewers were obviously idiots, that he hardly noticed the boy had began talking once more, hands flailing animatedly.  
  
“My comments are going berserk,” John snorted, shaking his head, “and my twitter notifications are through the roof. Honestly, Sherlock, they bloody _adore_ you.”

Sherlock gazed across the table at him, at his smaller, more comforting smile, his warm expression, that look of both pride and sincerity directed entirely on Sherlock, and the brunette felt his heart clenching in want, in need.

“I cannot comprehend _why_ ,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, brow twitching before he bit his lip and turned away from that look of fondness John was so marvelously sporting.

At the sound of John scoffing, Sherlock whirled back to face him, frown widening into a look of utter confusion as the boy he was so very in love with giggled that infamously adorable giggle.

“Oh, please,” John snorted, staring the genius down with a look of utter disbelief, mouth twitching smugly at the corners, “Have you seen yourself, _heard_ yourself?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“You look like you walked off a bloody runway,” John shrugged, picking at his odd assortment of questionably edible lunch options, plastic fork in hand, cheeks darkening a bit as he continued to speak, earlier confidence dwindling minutely, “or out of one of those ‘top lookers of the year’ calendars.”

“Plus,” John glanced away, speaking quieter now, “You’re brilliant. A proper genius.”

It wasn’t often that Sherlock found himself entirely speechless, but somehow John managed to consistently render him so with the simple utterance of a few words, his heart thrown into a throbbing, rapid mess, his face practically burning under the timid gaze of that bloody rugby captain, his throat bobbing as he forced himself to swallow, mouth dry and eyes wide.

“Anyway,” John continued quickly, “You’re always welcome over mine again. I did this whole _friend tag_ thing with Molly once, maybe we could do that too, or whatever.”

Sherlock smiled timidly as John shrugged his shoulders with false ease, gazing off into the distance, at the other students hunched over their trays, expertly avoiding Sherlock’s eye, fingers fiddling with the folds of his milk carton. _Nervous, embarrassed maybe_ , Sherlock observed fondly, feeling his cheeks heat at the very idea that perhaps John was flustered over _him,_ because of _his_ doing _._

“John,” He began, lips parting shyly.

“‘Course, if it was just a one-time thing for you, that’s fine too, yeah? I’m not trying to force anything, but I just wanted you to know you’re, you know, always welcome—”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock allowed himself a soft chuckle, shaking his head in admiration, watching as the blonde boy before him pressed on.

“And we could always do something different, like a challenge video or—“

“John!” He scoffed, grinning to himself and blushing down at his hands, of which were resting limply atop his lap, his heart thumping rapidly, the very organ overwhelmed by just how much he adored the boy across the table. 

John lifted his head attentively and smirked a bit, chewing on his bottom lip in a way that sent sparks from the knot in Sherlock’s throat, all the way down to the swelling of desire in his gut.

“I’d love to,” Sherlock sighed admiringly, quirking a small smile, before ducking his head shyly and looking away from those oceanic eyes.

With a gesture of fond affirmation, John went about finishing his lunch.

 

* * *

 

The week began to pass with enormous speed, the weight of another weekend resting atop Sherlock’s nimble shoulders as Wednesday afternoon found him strolling into the local ballet studio, sighing irritably to himself with the amount of persuading he’d had to partake in simply to have the place for a mere hour. The owner was snippy and Russian and had a head full of red curls, and had stared him down with scarily blue eyes before allowing him entry, if only he promised to pay a minor fee and clean the bathrooms. He’d been about to decline, but the thought of waiting yet _another_ week without _dancing, creating, uploading_ , had forced him to simply wince in his disgust and nod his head. It was far too risky to return to Baker’s studio, no matter how very much he enjoyed Ms. Hudson’s gentle smiles and the larger expanse of the room, all mirrors and shiny wooden floors that beckoned him into action.

He huffed and threw his duffle bag down, yanking out his ballet shoes and falling to the ground with little grace, before setting his camcorder up and stomping over towards the small stereo in the room’s corner, connecting his phone, choosing his song, and standing in the middle of the wooded floor. 

Finding another studio had been one problem fixed; the other would not be so easy.

John was _everywhere_ and it was driving Sherlock _completely_ mad. He was behind on uploading, a few of his subscribers commenting on his whereabouts, asking as to whether or not he was okay, if he was still breathing, still existing. But no, he wasn’t okay, because John was so bloody distracting — was he breathing? Sometimes. Not when John was around. Was he still in existence? He supposed so, but only because John made him feel as though he were worth existing. Sherlock was pathetically and hopelessly obsessed with _John_ Watson and it was beginning to seep through his every move; it was in the curve of his toe as he pointed it outwards in a graceful tap, swaying with the melody singing out of the small stereo’s speaker, a music track he chose distinctly because he had been thinking about _John_ at the time. Christ, he was helpless. 

 

_Stitch by stitch I tear apart._

 

Sherlock ducked and turned and jumped and twirled, flowing with the soft beats and unique voice of the artist, listening intently and following the routine he’d already mentally prepared, humming lightly to himself as he took to performing to his very best ability whilst his mind sought to make him crumble with every movement forward.

 

 _If brokenness is a form of art_ …

 

He thought about John’s hands. He thought about those soft, calloused delicate hands, caring and gentle, eager to fix, to help, to aid, in whatever they could. Light touches, easy caresses, a thumb on his lip, a finger to his battered eyes, the grasping of a concerned hand on his hip. Christ, how he wanted the bloody things elsewhere — everywhere.

 

_I must be a poster child prodigy._

 

He thought about John’s body; thick, muscular, tanned by what little sun London had to offer, rippling with the weight of an action, with the rise and fall of his hardened chest — the figure of a rugby player, thighs all-consuming, terribly distracting, and Sherlock imagined them framing his curly mop of hair. He shut his eyes and gasped softly, soaring as he leapt outwards and inwards, sideways and back, mind whirling, filtering every single thought away except those of John Watson.

 

_Thread by thread I come apart._

_If brokenness is a work of art,_

_Surely this must be my masterpiece._

 

How he wanted, how he desired, how he desperately ached to simply be held by John, even just for a moment — his hand, even — _anything_. He thought about what it would be like to stand beside John and know that they belonged to one another, that they fit like two puzzle pieces, opposite and yet only whole when together, joined as one simple thing in its entirety. He imagined grasping John’s hand — walking through the halls, to John’s car, across the table in the coffee shop — and holding it tight in his. He pondered what it would feel like if John placed his hands in places Sherlock had never even conceded anyone _wanting_ to touch, what it would feel like if John kissed him, ran his tongue along his bottom lip, tugged at his hair, grasped at his shirt. Sherlock inhaled sharply and shook his head, keeping with his dance, spinning forwards with the music, and trying hard not to let his unforgivingly cruel thoughts wonder further _elsewhere_.

 

_I'm only honest when it rains._

_If I time it right, the thunder breaks_

 

Sherlock let himself drift, flying, the ballet studio’s air cold against the turn and pull of his legs and arms, the bottom of his toes throbbing a bit with every movement of his feet, pink shoes nearly shimmering with their satin delicacy. He reminded himself of how very surreal his thoughts were becoming — these pestering notions that John would someday kiss _him_ , Sherlock Holmes, on the lips, or anywhere to be frank. The reality of it was that Sherlock was out of his depth, up a creek of untamed feelings without any sense of direction nor a functioning paddle. He was clueless to emotions, to sentiment, to what it meant to feel one way and not the other, and his heart was beginning to throb with the ache of it all. It was getting too hard to keep in, these stupid, pitiful thoughts, ideas, _dreams_. His lips quivered with the need to just _say_ it, shout it, confess it in all its idiocy, to the world, to John.

 

_When I open my mouth._

_I want to tell you but I don't know how._

 

Sherlock winced and spun faster, less than graceful, angry, tense, irritated with himself as he pressed on, ballet shoes hitting the floor harder than usual, a little harder than they should. Who was he kidding? He didn’t know love, he’d never known love — he was the sociopath all the kids growing up had been scared of, the same boy who could hardly stand up to his less than sober uncle, and the chemist who didn’t understand the chemistry between the feelings of two people.

 

_I'm only honest when it rains,_

_An open book with a torn out page,_

_And my ink's run out._

 

Sherlock clenched his jaw. He thought about his father, always emotionless and blank, in a consistent state of uncaring callousness, not a quirk in his features nor a twitch that indicated anything other than pure numbness — something he carried with him to the grave, body in the casket slack and far too eerily similar to when he had been breathing. He thought about Mycroft, bloody Mycroft, with his nose in the air, his ginger-brown hair slicked back, his umbrella gripped tight in one hand, glaring at Sherlock, frowning at Sherlock, shaking his head at Sherlock — disappointment, disdain, regret, _shame_. _Such a stupid little boy, so sensitive, so idiotically unaware,_ he’d say.

 

Sherlock soared through the air.

 

_I want to love you but I don't know how._

 

Focus, focus, focus. Routine, routine. _John_.  
Point, step, leap, twirl. John, John, _John_.  
Piano, soft voice, low beat, gentle flow. _John_.

 

_I don't know how,_

_No, I don't know how._

_I don't know how._

 

Sherlock spun, and spun and spun and spun, his body whirling, and his mind following suit, emotions clattering against the forefront of his brain with every spin, flailing, shattering loose, as though the very dance was breaking the mask, breaking the walls, letting it all tumble outward.

 

_I want to love you but I don't know how._

_I want to love you..._

 

He collapsed to the ground, landing on his knees with bruising force and hugging his arms around his chest, placing his forehead to the floor of the ballet studio, and breathing shakily inward. He felt his teeth grinding, his eyes fluttering shut, his heart thumping unsteadily, his legs trembling with exhaustion, his ribs protesting in their already fragile state, and his mind — his _mind_ — aching with the overwhelming sensation of complete and utter desperation.

He lifted his hand and slammed his palm onto the wooden floor, mouth shut tight, before he stood upwards and took a deep breath, shaking his head so rapidly his curls bounced this way and that. He stormed over to his camcorder and stopped the recording.

 _Fuck_.

 

 

* * *

 

John sat at his desk, eyes wide with honest distress and throat clogged with a knot of genuine emotion as he stared at the finished video, now a black image with ‘ _theballetbee_ ’ sprawled across it in an elegant font. Molly was seated beside him, focus practically glued to the screen in all its stillness, her expression so superbly concentrated John was almost positive she hadn’t blinked since he’d hit play. They’d both been rendered breathless, and John found that he couldn’t quite think of what to say, mind having gone blank long ago with the pure emotion that had washed off of the anonymous dancer in waves. His heart had clenched as the video ended abruptly with the man’s large hand smacking the floor in genuine, irritable anger, before the screen went dark and the song faded off. 

“Bloody hell,” Molly uttered, tone hushed and voice trembling lightly as she fell back in the seat she’d dragged from John’s kitchen and placed next to his desk chair.

John nodded blankly, and swallowed the knot forming in his throat, his brow creasing and his hands somehow reaching upward to pause YouTube’s ‘autoplay’ feature, eager to sit in silence and contemplate what had just fluttered across his eyes. 

“That was so,” Molly began, and then paused, thinking of the right word and then shrugging her shoulders as if the one she’d found still wasn’t good enough, “ _different_.”

John scoffed in agreement and then turned to her, expression pained, pursing his lips in concern as he met her eyes, pondering the way the ballet dancer had moved, had spun, had swayed and turned and whirled — he had seemed so utterly defeated, desperate, in a way John hadn’t seen before, not in any of his other videos.

“That was,” John shook his head in distressed amazement, “ _beautiful_.”

Molly bobbed her head and leaned forward to click ‘ _replay_.’

 

* * *

  

 **Twitter User:** _watsonmyface_

 

John H. Watson

_Stick around if you want to know what’s on my face today. :)_

 

 _Following:_ 37

 _Followers_ : 26,837

 

 

John H. Watson: Yet again finding myself in awe of what _theballetbee_ can do.

 

> Abigail W. @ _abbysmithh_ : HIS NEW VIDEO, YES I AGREE
> 
> Beeface for days @ _yourotpismyotp_ : yet again finding myself living for this ship
> 
> Amanda S. @ _givemeanaforarse_ : I watched it too — I’ll never be the same again
> 
> Rita @ _ritawatson_ : he’s so passionate, I’m honestly in love with him
> 
> Jessie Jess @ _jessisblessed_ : that’s cute, you’re cute wow
> 
> _Load 18,212 more comments…_

 

John H. Watson: Spending the day with Molls. :) We’re gonna be nerds and talk about science things most likely.

  

> Lilly Bird @ _flyhomeflyaway_ : I love ONE adorable platonic opposite gender friendship
> 
> Victoria @ _viclikeswatson_ : yesss she’s so cute
> 
> Jane Watson @ _ilovehisface_ : it’s because you’re a nerd that we love you silly boy
> 
> Gay May @ _gayandilikeit_ : low key have a very lesbian crush on her
> 
> Jessica @ _johnlockismykink_ : do you ever hang out with Sherlock _and_ Molly? :)
> 
> Chris R. @ _chrislovesjohn_ : uh cuteness
> 
> _Load 12,335 more comments…_

 

Retweeted by John H. Watson

Emma Lyrics @ _emmalouiselyrica_ :

_But all I want is to feel your love,_

_In a physical form_

 

* * *

 

“So,” Molly said with a grin as John slammed the door of his prehistoric car Thursday morning, slipping his cellphone into his pocket upon her arrival before him and arching a brow her way, suspicious of her short greeting and lack of ‘hello’.

“So?” John narrowed his eyes and frowned, walking alongside her and heading towards the school, another day far from over, but the weekend ever closer — he’d hoped to convince Sherlock once more into coming by his small flat, if only to be near the boy for longer than he could manage at Baker.

As if having read his mind, Molly placed a soft hand on his shoulder and lifted a mischievous brow in curious question, “How was hanging out with Sherlock Holmes?”

John felt a blush tint the sides of his cheeks and he instantly ducked his head from her view, moaning beneath his breath in embarrassment and sighing softly, “This is going to be an interrogation, isn’t it?”

Molly snorted and shook her head, linking her arm with his and strolling beside him, a small, friendly but eager smile across her warm, lightly powdered features, “I’m only curious.”

John laughed, “I know. That’s the _problem_.”

“Oh, come _on_. One minute you’re going out to coffee and the next he’s spending the night at your _flat_?” Molly squawked in feigned horror, appearing entirely pained with faux misery before she smirked and shook her head, “I’m only being a concerned friend.”

“What is there to be concerned about?” John snorted, stopping in his tracks and turning to face her with narrowed eyes, brows creasing his skin as he gazed her way in confusion.

Molly blinked, shaking her head in disbelief as if the answer was obvious.

“Um, hello,” She scoffed, her linked arm dragging John back into motion again, the two of them headed in the direction of their first classes of the day, ignoring the buzz and chatter of their fellow schoolmates as they passed a number of them, “Do you know how many diseases you can get from unprotected sex?”

John blanched, and lifted his palms to his face, covering the wincing of his embarrassed features, “Christ, Molly.”

“Some of them are deadly, John Hamish Watson,” She declared, the seriousness in her features all too disturbing.

“Can you _not_ —“ John groaned and turned to glare at her, though it lacked heat, “We are _not_ having sex, Molls.”

Molly blinked, hummed thoughtfully to herself, removed her arm, and ran both hands up her head to fix her chestnut ponytail before turning back to John with a somewhat disheartened expression, “That’s unfortunate then.”

John couldn’t help but bob his head to the side at that — it was quite, yes. He definitely wouldn’t mind if the very comment had, in fact, been true. Christ — if his father ever found out John was pondering _feeling up_ a boy in many fond ways, he’d be disowned and forever declared a nonexistent member of the Watson household. He shrugged off the depressing thought and faced Molly once more.

“Look,” John sighed, “I do, you know, _like_ him.”

His heart fluttered with the admission and he waited for Molly to respond, of whom was staring at him dead-eyed, expression flat and one brow arched entirely too high to be normal.

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know,” She then smirked, and winked his way, grabbing his arm once more and sauntering beside him down the corridor, whilst they simultaneously dodged the other students going about their business.

John glared at her playfully before looking down at his feet and sighing, “I’m just in a difficult position, you know?”

Her features suddenly fell worryingly sad, and she nodded her head, glancing down at her pink, rose clad dress, fingers fiddling mindlessly with the end of it. 

“I know, John.” 

“Though, I’m _this_ close,” John lifted his hand and held up his fingers, indicating a small bit of space between his index finger and thumb, shaking his head in amusement, “to saying _to hell with it all, I might just be bisexual._ ”

Molly let out a soft giggle and beamed his way, their feet coming to a stop between a splitting hallway, Molly’s class down an entirely different corridor to his. She placed her soft hands atop his shoulders and grinned at him, all white teeth and pink lips and he was instantly reminded of how lucky he was to have her as his friend.

“Glad you’re finally admitting it, John,” She chuckled lightly and leaned in to kiss his cheek softly, pulling away and swaying fancily down the mostly empty hall — now that most of their classmates had disappeared into their assigned classes — away from him, dress flowing outward with the movement, short heels tapping loudly against the school’s tiled floors.

“Oi,” John spat out after her, though he felt himself smiling, “It could just be _him_ , you know — that I’m attracted to!”

She whirled around, walking backwards and shaking her head his way as if she thought he was being entirely too daft, “Nope, I’ve known you _far_ too long, John Watson.”

Just as John was about to ask what she meant by that, she glanced once more over her shoulder and shouted out, “You’ve always wanted the best of _both_ worlds.”

And with a wink, she disappeared behind the large, navy door of her first class, hair twirling and dress flying.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock hugged his duffle bag close to his chest, sauntering past the slow, meandering forms of other students, eyes and head downcast, avoiding the judging stares and tantalizing smirks, curls toppling down across his forehead. His mind was a storm, brain scrambled beyond proper control, his thoughts spinning around both John and his newest video, the comments asking whether he was okay, viewers stating it was his most emotional, most powerful, dance yet — and Sherlock couldn’t help but hate himself for it. John made him emotional, and that was awful. More than awful, it was dangerous. He was standing on the edge of a cliff and John was holding him afloat by the hem of his shirt — one wrong step, one wrong move or word or breath, and he would go tumbling down into the pit below.

And, based on the balance of probability, he’d find himself lost in the darkness by the end of next week.

“Hello, Holmes,” A voice whispered softly into his ear, and he quickly whirled around, coming face to face with the tall, strong-built form of Sebastian Wilkes, towering over him with dark eyes and dark hair, hungry like the wolf, a snarl on his threatening expression.

Sherlock swallowed and cleared his throat, tugging his duffle bag closer to his side and glancing away from the ghastly gaze of his sworn enemy, or so it seemed.

“Can I help you, _Sebastian_?” He uttered, blinking towards the ground before lifting his head and facing the boy once more, a similar, heated anger in his gaze as he braced himself for the worst. He felt the eyes of surrounding students turn his way, until it seemed as though the entirety of the corridor had fixed its attention on his lanky form and Wilkes’ devilish sneer.

“What’s your deal, twink?” The boy asked, pressing a fist into Sherlock’s shirt collar and pulling him close, leering down, teeth bared as though Sherlock were a piece of meat, as though he were something to snack on.

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock snapped back, arching a brow and keeping a straight face, blank and emotionless, trying to cast Wilkes off with a look of pure boredom, a desperate attempt to appear as though Sebastian Wilkes didn’t scare him — not at all, not in the slightest.

“Don’t be stupid, Holmes,” The boy snarled back, horrifically amused features dropping into a look of deeper rage, a look that spoke volumes, a look that said, ‘ _you better fucking answer or I’ll kick your face in.’_

Sebastian’s grip tightened, “What’s your deal with Watson?”

Sherlock jolted as the bell’s piercing trill rang out around him, the students of whom had stopped to stand witness to their conflict now turning away and jogging off to their respective classes, leaving Sherlock trapped in the middle of the empty corridor, Wilkes’ fist beneath his chin and his heart faltering with what a silent hall now meant for his well-being. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock uttered, blinking away his fear, his lips pursing with both irritation and frayed nerves.

“And here I thought you were a genius,” Sebastian’s smirk was back now, disconcerting and fearless as helet go of Sherlock’s collar to shove the tall, lanky boy aside and into the wall of lockers, teeth bared in entertained ferocity. “You like him, don’t you, _fag_?”

Sherlock winced at the insult, at the truth behind Wilkes’ question, and he quickly turned away, ducking his head downward to fix his eyes purely on the floor, refusing to respond to the brute hovering over him, the twinge of fear now turning into an aching sense of agony.

The sound of Sebastian’s booming laughter above caused his fingers to tremble and his legs to shake.

“Bloody hell,” the teenager snarled in amusement, and stepped closer to the brunette, breath horrid and foul as he chuckled bitterly, “I knew you had the hots for the captain, you sick _bastard_.”

Sherlock inched to pull away, turning and moving his back from atop the lockers, only to feel hands grip his shoulders and push him back against the metal, and he let out a sharp yelp, his heart plummeting to the bottom of his gut as he spotted the fisted hand at Seb’s side, simply aching to be thrown.

“And you’re trying so hard, aren’t you, _freak_?” Wilkes continued, leering down at Sherlock’s now lifted chin, his eyes fixed on Sebastian’s sneer, the curve of his mouth, vile and threatening, “for him to like you back. You’d love nothing more than to take it up the arse from our beloved Captain John Watson, ain’t that right?”

Sebastian Wilkes sniggered, grin wide and villainous as it twisted his features, his eyes dark and his expression darker, his hand gripping the collar of Sherlock’s shirt once more and shoving him back against the lockers again, the slam and clanging of metal echoing through the empty hall.

“You’re more of a slut than most of the girls at this school, Holmes,” Wilkes practically giggled, throwing his head back as though all of this was simply hilarious, as though the prospect of Sherlock ever finding someone to love was the funniest thing he’d heard in a long while.

Sherlock arched a brow, keeping the throbbing pain of the bully’s words below the surface, and standing up just a bit taller, shoulders burning from where the metallic form of the lockers had dug just a bit too deep.

“You would know,” He snapped back, eyeing Sebastian steadily, deducing — _parents just divorced, failing in Literature class, owns a goldfish_ — calculating, and preparing himself for the worst.

Wilkes’ smile vanished again, and suddenly both hands had his collar hostage, yanking him forwards and nearly pressing him directly against Sebastian’s chest, the boy snarling so wildly Sherlock could feel the spray of his saliva; he winced at the feeling, desperately trying to wiggle his way to safety but falling flat.

“You bloody _cocksucker_ ,” He spat, and with one solid thrust of his arms, he threw the entirety of Sherlock’s thin frame to the floor, the cold tile slamming against this frail, dancer’s bones with bruising force and Sherlock cried out softly, curling in on himself and hugging his stomach, already aware of what came next.

But before he could feel the sharp jabbing of Wilkes’ trainers, he heard a sharp voice call out Sebastian’s name from the end of the hallway and footsteps slamming agains the ground in a sprint, angry and outraged as they approached. He lifted his head and his eyes fell into the ocean, blue fixed on his lanky figure, as the dirty-blonde stepped around him and into his enemy’s face, John Watson’s strong, capable hands shoving Seb backwards, the dark haired bully gazing up at him with amused surprise.

 “Watson,” Wilkes chuckled, gathering his balance once more and glaring playfully John’s way, “come to join me?”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” John snapped in response, his stance tense and shoulders forward, ready for anything, ready to use force to send Sebastian away, ready to use whatever means necessary.

Sherlock found luxury in the sound of John’s voice, his heart clenching with knowledge of the fact that John had come for _him_ , was protecting _him,_ was refusing to allow Sebastian Wilkes to toss a few punches and be on his way. 

“You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with that sick freak, you realize,” Seb stated, taking a step closer to John’s solid position in front of Sherlock’s grounded form, his mouth twitching with bitter amusement, “so much so that the boys and I have started to worry.”

John remained silent, simply glowering in fury, golden hair a bit ruffled from the action as he stood in his red jumper and navy jeans, shorter than Wilkes but tall in appearance, the intensity of his glare making up for the missing inches.

 “Something you need to tell me, Johnny boy?” Sebastian teased, smirking wide and watching the both of them with knowing eyes, “Any confessions you need off your chest?”

 “He’s my _friend_ , Seb,” John growled, his hands clenching into fists at his side.

“Oh, yes, you’re _quite_ the pair,” Sebastian snickered, “Sitting together at lunch all the time, that little YouTube video you had him star in, all your little conversations in the halls. Quite close, the two of you, aye?”

Before John could counter Wilkes’ words, the tall boy drew in closer, sticking his nose right into John’s face, his features twisting into an eerily friendly smile, all teeth and crinkled eyes, “I didn’t realize you were into _cock_ , John.”

Within an instant, John was heaving himself forward and slamming a still grinning Sebastian Wilkes into the lockers where Sherlock had been only moments ago, and the brunette watched from the ground, nerves sending his body into a tremble as he witnessed the rage burning brightly behind the rugby captain’s eyes. John placed one hand onto Sebastian’s chest and the other curled into a pointed gesture, one finger jabbing viciously into the bully’s amused mug.

“You can tell James, and Mike, and Moran, and the rest of the bloody rugby team that they better find something and _someone_ else to run their mouths about, yeah?” John snarled, and slammed the boy in his grasp against the metal lockers once more, “And if you so much as think about putting another hand on Sherlock Holmes, I swear to _God_ I will make you regret it, do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Wilkes smirked, though his voice was hoarse and unsteady.

“Then _fuck off_ ,” John ordered in his captain’s voice, shoving Sebastian aside and taking a step back, standing, still tense, as Seb’s eyes dropped to Sherlock, then back to John, before he turned and began stomping away down the empty corridor.

Sherlock watched in utter disbelief from his sprawled position on the cold floor, his back throbbing and his bones aching, whilst his mind cheered and swooned over John Watson, of whom was now standing beside him, a hand outstretched and a small, fragile smile across his finally warm expression.

“Alright?” The boy above him asked, concern now replacing the earlier anger that had swarmed the depths of those oceanic eyes.

Sherlock quickly nodded and took the hand held out to him, grasping it tightly and reveling in the warmth beneath John’s palm, skin on skin practically throwing Sherlock’s mind into a rampage of excitement, nervousness, and desperate desire. He lifted himself up, with John’s help, and shyly brushed at his jeans, his bones bruised and still sore as he stood before the rugby captain, of whom was now beaming his way as though Sherlock back on his feet was some sort of gift to the world.

He flinched weakly as John nudged softly at his shoulder, biting his lip and chuckling lightly to himself as he turned and reached for Sherlock duffle bag, from where it had fallen to the ground in the short scuffle.

“See,” John smiled and held the strap upwards for Sherlock to take hold of, “ _told_ you I’d protect you.”

Sherlock felt himself blush and he quickly ducked his head to stare down at his feet, marveling over the words and remembering John’s text from what felt like ages ago — _I’ll never let him hurt you again_ — and John had proved that today, stepping in just before it could go any farther. But, frankly, Sherlock’s greatest fear wasn’t Seb’s punches or his cruel words or what he might do next — it was _John_. Because _bloody hell_ John Watson had more power to hurt him than Sebastian Wilkes ever would.

“As I said before,” Sherlock bobbed his head slowly and quirked a small smirk, allowing himself a glance up at John’s warm grin as he took his duffle bag from John’s capable hands, “it seems chivalry _isn’t_ dead.”

John let out a soft puff of laughter before gesturing with a shake of his head and beginning to move back in the direction of his class, gazing brightly at Sherlock, his eyes dancing over his slender form before setting his sights on Sherlock’s own.

“Come on you,” He said, calmly, all anger and aggression gone now, the same, joyfully blissful John Watson back and warmer than ever, “you’re late for literature.”

“And you’re not?” Sherlock asked with an arched brow, lifting his chin in question as he walked beside the short boy.

“Bathroom pass,” John shrugged, glancing over at him with a shy smile, “You didn’t show up to class so I worried.”

Sherlock swallowed the knot blooming in his throat and stared down at the ground as they sauntered on, a smile causing his lips to curve upwards and his cheeks to redden with embarrassment.

“Thank you,” Sherlock uttered softly, lifting his eyes just a touch to catch sight of John’s proud expression, his ruffled dirty-blonde hair and blue eyes so compelling Sherlock had to keep himself from kissing the smirk right off of those lips.

“‘Course,” John nudged his shoulder playfully and shot him a soft wink, before the two of them continued sauntering onwards, John’s head held high whilst Sherlock kept his low, the occasional glance at the rugby captain beside him causing his heart to soar and his cheeks to heat. 

They walked in silence for a few moments, drawing nearer to their respective class, the only sound their footsteps agains the tiled floor of the corridor, when Sherlock cleared his throat, turning slightly towards the boy next to him and trying his best to swallow down his nervousness. 

“Perhaps I simply didn’t want to hear another Romeo and Juliet lecture,” Sherlock smiled timidly, watching as John gazed back at him, a smirk pulling at his lips — _Christ_ , those lips.

“Perhaps,” John chuckled, shrugging a single shoulder and letting out a dramatic sigh, “But I rather hoped you’d still come to class regardless.”

“Why?” Sherlock frowned.

“Because I like to think you wouldn’t voluntarily leave me alone,” John stated firmly, his smile shyer now, light and soft, a look of pure uncertainty and yet mixed with that same underlying edge of confidence.

Sherlock felt his entire complexion turn from pale to pink and he quickly let out an anxious, blushing laugh, looking away and down the hall ahead of them, snorting wildly and narrowing his eyes, “You have other friends in there. You wouldn’t be alone.” 

John stopped in his tracks, grabbing gently to Sherlock’s elbow to halt him as well, staring with a frown at the brunette, of whom was frozen still, heart clenching, throat bobbing as he swallowed nervously.

“You’re different,” John Watson admitted, that familiar, warm smile back on his face again, comforting and gentle, shivers shooting rapidly up Sherlock’s spine at the sight, twisting his gut with need, with desire.

They stared at each other, those same pairs of eyes, kaleidoscope versus ocean, burning into one another, both holding dear an infatuation neither was aware of, still as statues in the hauntingly empty hall, the only sounds their unsteady breath and the faint scuffling of busy classrooms.

“Different how?” Sherlock whispered, his voice quivering and far weaker than he would have liked. 

John took a step forward, hesitated, and then cleared his throat, turning his head away and biting his lip, chuckling lightly to himself and watching Sherlock with those heavy eyes.

“Class’ll be over by the time I’m done answering _that_ question,” He said, another wink aimed Sherlock’s way, and with that, his hand dropped from the dancer’s elbow and he moved to stride away once more, a movement Sherlock quickly followed, all while simultaneously pushing the disappointment of John’s enigmatic answer to the side and desperately trying to hide the reddening of his cheekbones.

Once they had reached the navy door, John stepped away and flicked his head in its direction, gesturing to the handle and smiling a knowing smile.

“Best go in first,” He shrugged, smirking, “Can’t go walking in at the same time. People will talk.”

Sherlock scoffed, “People do little else.”

He watched as the rugby captain grinned and nodded his head, before reaching forwards and yanking the door open, stepping in to a chatty classroom, students holding their playbooks up and yelling at one another passionately, worksheets before them. He suppressed a groan and slipped past Ms. Montgomery unnoticed, brain spinning and thoughts whirling as he plummeted into the hard surface of his wooden desk, throwing a fist beneath his chin and glaring forwards, already laying out his plan of staring into the abyss for the rest of the class period. 

_People will talk. People will talk? Who gives a bloody fucking shit about people._

Sally Donovan glanced over at him, a brow arched, her wiry brown curls done up in a pristine bun as she twirled a loose end in her ring clad index finger, observing him intently, a look of amused judgment staining her sneering expression.

“What’s climbed up _your_ arse, Freak?” She snorted, taking note of his scrunched nose, his furrowed brow, the entirety of his face creased with both disappointment and irritation as he gazed adamantly forward.

“Boyfriend forget to get you off this morning?” Sally smirked, leaning back in her seat with an arched brow, cocky and proud, as though teasing Sherlock, of whom she so annoyingly knew to be a, quite simply, and extremely, virgin _virgin_ , about sex was the epitome of hilarious.

“I’d be careful, Sally,” Sherlock snapped, glancing briefly over at her to stare her dead in the eyes before turning away as Ms. Montgomery stood from her desk to address the room, “Your jeans are starting to wear at the knees. Can’t have everyone knowing how you spend your afternoon study sessions with Philip Anderson.”

He took pleasure in the hitch of Sally’s breath, before turning back to her and narrowing his eyes in faux curiosity. 

“Or is that just from scrubbing your floors?”

 

* * *

 

It was just as the end of the day was coming round that the weather outside took on an entirely frightful mood, rain pouring from the sky like bullets, hard and fast, droplets the size of golfballs, flooding the outdoor field, Baker’s walkway’s, and the ditches outside the school’s front entrance. John had just barely made it to his car alive, slamming his door shut behind him, his backpack damp to the touch, his rugby shirt sticking wetly to his stomach and shoulders, red lettered jacket soaked through on the seat beside him.

Rugby practice had been cancelled with the weight of the storm, his coach determined to make them scrimmage, telling them to change into their gear, even warm-up in the gym, until a bolt of lightning had shot out overhead just as they had made their way towards the field, and he begrudgingly told them all to go on home; with a relieved sigh and a short goodbye to Greg, John had sprinted to his banged up old antique and found safety from the downpour within the vehicle’s four doors.

Once he’d put the heating on full blast and gotten comfortable with the soppy, unpleasant feeling of wet underwear, John had kicked the car into drive and begun his trip home, heart happy with the lack of a muddy, drowned rugby practice. 

But his mind quickly slid on to another issue, another matter that took hold of that happy heart and squeezed it tight, unsure of whether or not to drag it down, or up even further. Sherlock Holmes was this great big _problem_ — a problem because John was beginning to _ache_ whenever he found himself away from the boy; he was beginning to hurt, to wince at the thought of losing a moment with him, and that was making it _extremely_ difficult to concentrate on schoolwork, videos, and his lovely, blooming sexual identity crisis.

To John, Sherlock Holmes was a perfect enigma wrapped in a sweet center of pure warmth, love, and childish innocence. Sherlock was an emotionless genius on the outside to most everyone he’d witnessed the brunette interact with, but John saw what lied beneath that single layer, a layer so easily broken if dealt with correctly, a layer John had grown to completely, and utterly, fall in love with. He was a beautifully sculpted, slender figure of milk-bottle white skin, curly chocolate locks, and unreadable, untamable, kaleidoscope shaded eyes, with lashes that fluttered and danced beneath his brown brows. His mouth was made purely by the hands of the Greek Gods, pink and plush and curved with a Cupid’s bow unlike any other. Sherlock was, to John, a rarity he wished never to lose, a treasure he’d find only once in what may be a short lifetime — a gift placed upon the earth with grace, made to be cherished, made to be praised and loved and adored and protected.

And John let out a moan at the very concept of it all, how very well and truly in love he sounded, how obsessed, how infatuated, with a boy that could, possibly, see him as a mere friend — the only friend he’d ever had, or so it seemed.

It was because he was so distracted by the very _concept_ of Sherlock Holmes, that he nearly missed the boy himself, dressed in his ever-present hooded jumper, walking along a cement path away from Baker, drenched to the bone in water, rain pummeling down upon him as he braved the horrid weather, duffle bag tucked beneath is arm and backpack atop his shoulders.

John instantly slammed a foot on the brakes, slowing his speed, glancing in his rearview mirror for any other cars behind his own — none _thankfully_ — and rolling down his window, wincing as water splattered the inner form of his door and the tattered leather of his steering wheel.

“Oi,” John called out, loud as he could through the flow of falling water, “git!”

He watched as Sherlock turned to glance over at him, squinting through the shower, curls sticking messily to his wet forehead, black clothing shiny and shimmering as it hugged the thin form of his figure.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?”

“What does it _look_ like?” Sherlock yelled back, and John swore the prick rolled his eyes — ever the same, even when he’d taken on the form of a wet dog.

“Like you’re drowning yourself, to me,” John snapped back playfully, grinning wide and shaking his head at the boy as he pressed on whilst John allowed his car to roll slowly beside his striding form. He watched as Sherlock’s steps faltered a bit and a smile quirked at those pink lips, before the genius kept on, shoes splashing wildly against the gravel.

“Come on,” John shouted out, pressing his foot onto the pedal and speeding up a bit so that he was looking back at Sherlock rather than at his sauntering side, “get in.”

Sherlock glanced over, blinked, and then continued on, “I’m fine." 

“Like hell you’re _fine_! You’re gonna catch a bloody cold,” John huffed, shaking his head in disapproval before gazing at his friend with a stern, penetrating glare. “Just get in.”

“No.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock. Look at yourself.”

Sherlock swallowed, stopped walking and stared down at his heavy clothes, taking in the state of his drenched shoes, his wet duffle bag, noting the feeling of each and every hair sticking to the sides of his cheekbones and forehead, the burning of his eyes, and after a few seconds, he sighed and ducked his head. “ _Fine_.”

John chuckled and reached over to his passenger side door, clicking it unlocked and watching carefully as Sherlock jogged over and yanked it open, sliding in with an unpleasant squelching of wet clothes against leather. He was a bundle of shivers as soon as he closed the vehicle behind him, arms huddled and hugging his bag, backpack squished beneath his back and the car seat, teeth chattering and fingers trembling.

“Good boy,” John stated, nodding his head proudly and taking pleasure in the bright pink shade that found its way up Sherlock’s cheeks, even beneath the droplets of rainwater that had begun sliding from his hair down and over the entirety of his face. The rugby captain reached forward to flick on the heating, even harder and warmer than before, and smiled softly as Sherlock brought his hands up to the air vent, eyes fluttering shut as he reveled in returning the proper warmth to his fingers.

“Where to then?” John laughed brightly, glancing at the boy, admiring him, up and down, giving him a good once-over before turning back to the road, trying desperately to remove his thoughts from where they’d suddenly plummeted to the gutter — _lick that little droplet of rain right off of his neck John, I bet his lips are soft and cold, why don’t you warm them up, you know cuddling naked can produce a lot of heat, right? Maybe give that a go, sunshine._

God, he was a _goner_.

“Speedy’s cafe,” Sherlock replied, voice hoarse and unsteady as he kept his palms on the heater, the softness of his tone knocking John from that dark place deep in his mind, the one that urged him to lean in close and kiss the trembles right out of him. _Fuck_. 

John scoffed, trying to regain his footing, “Definitely not.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked, a frown in place.

“I’m not taking you there like that.”John let out another chuckle and leaned back in his seat, his grip tightening on the wheel, “Sherlock, you’re soaked through. You need a change of clothes.”

“I am perfectly fine,” Sherlock snapped back, his eyes hesitant as they dropped from John to his duffle and back out the window. 

“Right,” John raised his brows at the boy, “that’s why you’re currently _feeling_ _up_ my car’s air vent.”

Sherlock froze, blinked at the heater and then slowly pulled away, swallowing thickly and rolling his eyes, letting out a long breath of air, as though everything in his very life was entirely _not_ worth the effort. 

“We can stop by yours first,” John said warmly, before glancing at the boy to shoot him a quick smile, only to notice the panicked expression suddenly melting his look of disdain, fear in his multi-colored eyes and the corners of his mouth downturned.

“No,” He snapped, harsh and quick, his head ducked and face now hidden, curls still stuck to his wet skin.

“What do you mean ‘ _no_ ’?” John asked uncertainly, watching as Sherlock shrugged a shoulder.

“Can’t go home.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock swallowed, “No key.”

“No one’s there?” John questioned in response, seeing through Sherlock’s words, detecting that the genius before him was more than likely lying through his teeth — _why_ , of course, remained unknown. He observed the shake of Sherlock’s head and then waited a moment, noting the way Sherlock’s hands shook even pressed against the heater once more.

“Fine,” John stated firmly, deciding that if Sherlock didn’t want to go home, he certainly wouldn’t force him to, lie or no lie, “my flat then.”

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide and bright, hopeful even, and John took pride in knowing, for once, that he’d been the one to impress Sherlock, instead of the other way around.

“You can borrow some of my clothes, yeah?” The rugby captain added with a smile, to which his friend beside him nodded, and he pressed harder on the pedal, moving the vehicle at a far more productive speed as they cruised through the waterlogged city.

He watched as Sherlock shook against his car’s tattered, old seats, his clothing darkening its hue as droplets of water slid from the hem of his shirt and the fabric of his jeans. He had his damp duffle bag tucked tight between his legs, his palms back on the heater, his eyes shut as he breathed deeply and seemingly focused on the silence looming over them, aside from the low lull of the radio, a spokesman raving on about his quality product.

“So what’s in the bag?” John pondered, blue eyes darting over to where Sherlock sat, hunched over himself, shoulders suddenly guarded, expression narrowed and tense.

“Sorry?” The brunette responded, the question more of a statement, his sights set on the road ahead of him, rather than John’s intrigued stare. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled box of cigarettes, the entirety of its damp form falling apart in his fingers as he eagerly pulled out a single smoke.

“The bag. Your bag. The one you almost always lug around with you,” John scoffed, his smile warm and inviting, hoping to persuade Sherlock into spilling his utmost secrets. “What’s in it?”

“Body parts,” The genius spat back at him, placing the cigarette between his pink lips, even more rosy from the rain, and lifting his lighter, tucked in his opposite hand, to the end, flicking the switch somewhat desperately, the flame flickering and stuttering uselessly.

John rolled his eyes and chuckled, glancing at the boy, then the road, and then back again, “Oh, _ha-ha_. Very funny.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched in an attempt to form a mostly hidden smirk before he fiddled with his lighter once more, the cigarette in his mouth drooping pitifully in its wet state. “Dirty laundry,” He mumbled.

“Sherlock,” John warned, arching a disbelieving brow.

“Extra textbooks.”

“Another lie.”

“What, why?” Sherlock frowned, removing the cigarette from his lips to talk properly before turning to face John, his nose wrinkling rather adorably as he looked on at the rugby captain with perplexity.

“Because you’re just _not_ that dedicated,” John shrugged and focused his attention back on the road.

He heard a soft puff of air escape Sherlock, a quiet sign of amusement, an impressed smile growing across his features before he shook his head and went back to the very trying ordeal of lighting his patiently waiting cigarette of which had instantly returned to his lips. 

John waited, slowing with the approaching red light, before he glanced back over at Sherlock, the brunette seemingly unmoving, far too focused on his current situation to answer John’s question.

“What,” John gawked and scoffed, “seriously? You’re not going to tell me?”

He watched the boy smirk, the bit of papered nicotine between his lips looking positively filthy at the current moment.

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock,” John swallowed and lifted a hand towards Sherlock’s lips, yanking the cigarette from between them and holding it up to the heater, shaking his head in amused frustration, as Sherlock stared at him wide-eyed. “Try drying it off first, genius.”

He heard the boy huffed before his cold fingers brushed against John’s, taking back his smoke and holding it as instructed, all whilst unaware of John’s sharp intake of breath and quick turn away, his hands returning to the steering wheel, gripping so tight his knuckles went to white.

“Then again,” John muttered, clearing his throat, tone hoarse, “I hope that whole pack is beyond salvation.” 

Sherlock turned to him with an affronted glare, as though John had just insulted his mother, curls flat and curled against his forehead.

“What?” John lifted a shoulder carelessly, “They’re bad for you.”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock groaned in that same low baritone John was so unhealthily obsessed with, “How could I forget, _Doctor_ _Watson_?”

And John couldn’t bloody well stop it from happening; it was his body’s fault after all — the way his gut twisted, and his skin shivered, and his limbs trembled, and his groin — _fuck’s_ sake.

“Shut up,” He managed, looking away and carefully pulling the car up and into his flat complex, his heart swelling with the very fact that Sherlock was returning so soon, back where he lived, back with him, just the two of them.

John would give the world for that and that alone. 

 

* * *

 

 

_Neptune_

7,890 views. 589 Likes, 2 Dislikes.

Video Description:

 

_Bit chaotic. Though, that is love, isn’t it? — B_

_Thank you for more than 10k. Your support is appreciated._

 

Comments (490)…

 

 _bonkersforbee_ _: holy shit this is emotional I fucking sobbed_

 _christiebee_ _: 1. You took a hard fall, are you okay? 2. This is so moving, so powerful. I can feel the emotion so heavily it brought tears to my eyes. As always, incredible!_

 _helloimavirtuso_ _: is this about someone specific? You seem really distraught, but regardless, amazing work Bee. You NEED to dance on stage if you don’t already, you deserve to be seen by people around the world_

 _violinsandbees_ _: powerful, beautiful, and heart-wrenching Mr. Bee_

 _watsonmyface_ _: This had me breathless. — Watson_

> _gaysfordays_ _: @watsonmyface HNNNNNNG_
> 
> _johnlockislove_ _: @watsonmyface and as ever the battle between who my OTP is continues_
> 
> _watsonthemenu_ _: @watsonmyface the fact that you still comment is adorable, John. Are you both friends now? :)_
> 
> _Load 50 more comments…_

_Buzzbuzzboom_ _: WOW_

  

* * *

 

 

“Alright,” John announced as they wandered into his room, the same four walls Sherlock had grown to feel his utmost safest within in only a small amount of time, all navy blue and riddled with tacky posters, the planet pillow atop his made bed reminding Sherlock of its softness, of waking up beside John. 

“My clothes may be a little baggy on you,” John stated, his eyes dropping over Sherlock’s thin frame, and the brunette quickly wrapped his arms around him self insecurely, ducking his head and swallowing, the idea of putting John’s clothing on now feeling just a bit overwhelming. 

“But they’ll be dry,” John added, reaching down into his dresser and grabbing out a black and grey tee, along with a pair of what looked like navy jeans. He turned back around to face Sherlock and handed them over with his ever-present warm smile, his eyes alight with friendliness, his expression careful and sincere.

Sherlock gulped down the knot in his throat and glanced at the clothes in John’s outstretched hand, his brain throbbing as it threw a multitude of varying thoughts his way, chaotic and wild; _what would they smell like, what would they feel like, when was the last time John wore them, what was he doing when he wore them_ — bloody hell. He grabbed hold of them slowly and blinked blankly down at their folded form in his hands, before shaking himself awake and turning away to set his duffle bag and backpack down at the foot of the door, nervously lifting his eyes to John’s, ocean blue gazing back at him with intrigue. 

He paused, glanced around the room and then cleared his throat, watching the ground shyly, “Bathroom?”

John seemed to come to his senses immediately and with a sharp inhale, he nodded and bit his lip, his palm flailing rapidly in a directing gesture, “Down the hall, on your left.”

Sherlock bobbed his head in understanding and slowly meandered out of the doorway and into the corridor, shivering at the weight of John’s eyes on his back.

 

* * *

 

_Channel: watsonmyface_

_Subscribers: 30,213_

 

* * *

 

John let out a long yawn and plummeted down onto his bed’s navy duvet, holding the planet pillow to his chest and staring up at his ceiling, pondering quietly to himself, picturing Sherlock in his clothes, imagining the boy halfway out of his sopping wet clothes, cold and ruffled, imperfect for once, when he normally looked immaculate. He let out a deep sigh and shook his head at his thoughts, at himself, at his need and desire for a boy so very untouchable.

He shut his eyes for a moment and floated away, away to a world where he held Sherlock’s hand as they drove to his flat, where he kissed him goodbye in the hallways before a lecture, where he passed love notes to him in class and left funny little messages in his locker that told the boy how smart he was, how clever. A little world where his father came home for the holidays and invited Sherlock round for dinner, told him how good he was for his son, told John how proud he was that he wasn’t ashamed to be himself. What a wonderful world that would be. 

The shrill ringing of a phone jolted John out of his useless imaginings and he bolted upright in his bed, glancing over at Sherlock’s black backpack and wincing slightly. With entirely noble intentions in mind, he slipped from his mattress and knelt down beside the bag, listing for the ringing and unzipping the smallest pocket, the minute form of a mobile tucked gently within it, a little damp but seemingly in good working condition.

He glanced at the screen and held back a loud laugh, reading the title, “ _Fatcroft_ ,” along with a contact photo that appeared to be a stock image of what looked like a giant piece of cake. Or was that a pie? Narrowing his eyes in amusement, John got to his feet and slipped out of his bedroom, strolling mindlessly towards the bathroom door and approaching with ease, his hand lifted to knock in warning, phone in his hand, still singing noisily.

“Sherlock,” He called out, and stepped up to the door, “Pretty sure your brother is calling you.”

And with that, John reached for the handle and poked his head around the narrow slot, his hand extending, mobile tucked beneath his fingers and against his palm. He had every intention of dropping the cellphone on the edge of the sink, but his eyes caught sight of something stark black, sharp and startlingly contrast against milk-bottle white skin. He heard Sherlock’s quiet protests far too late and as soon as his eyes took in the sight of Sherlock’s long, pale spine, he set his sights on the curving detail of a tattoo.

 

* * *

 

 _Tweets mentioning_ _@watsonmyface_

 

Victoria @ _viclikeswatson_ : @ _watsonmyface_ ’s content is so good im actually sobbing? I’m rewatching his older videos and look at how far my baby has come wow.

Little Lia @ _lialovesjohn_ : daily thought: I wish @ _watsonmyface_ would kiss me.

The Theorist @ _discussthemships_ : (Poll) Who do you ship more? @ _watsonmyface_ and his friend Sherlock, or @ _watsonmyface_ and theballetbee? #Beeface or #Johnlock? 

Trish @ _iliveforyoutubers_ : excuse me who is the duo of @ _watsonmyface_ and this Sherlock because I want them in my face 24/7, what little darlings.

 

* * *

 

“John!” Sherlock snapped hysterically, “What the bloody hell?”

He yanked the hem of his borrowed shirt down over the back of his torso and whirled around to meet John’s eyes, his heart soaring upwards, into the lining of his throat, his air supply momentarily cut off as he watched a look of recognition dawn across the entirety of John’s expressions, his features opening wide with realization, jaw dropping agonizingly slowly.

He swallowed and glanced away, shutting his eyes for a moment before he cleared his throat and reached for his pile of wet clothes beside his feet.

“You could’ve knocked,” _He growled out — keep things normal, keep it casual, pay it no mind, ignore him, ignore that face he’s making, he doesn’t know, he can’t know, he won’t know_.

But Sherlock was devastatingly and horribly wrong, his heart sinking as those ocean eyes met his own once again, full of an overwhelming amount of both disbelief and thorough discernment. Because Sherlock had been too late, and John had seen. John had seen and now his entire world was going to fall apart on top of him.

He felt his heart stop and his veins run cold as his mobile stopped ringing and John blinked up at him in utter incredulity.

 

“It’s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment. :)


	14. Radar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I suppose it must feel different now,” Sherlock finally murmured, voice low and soft, deep as it rumbled out alongside John’s own, whilst he determinedly, desperately, tried not to meet the boy’s eyes, his breath catching in his throat as he winced. “Now that you know the truth. Now that you’ve seen me, now that you know I’m not some surreal, untouchable being; the magic is gone.”
> 
> “No, it’s not,” John said, quickly, and Sherlock couldn’t help it — he turned to look at him, their face so very close, their eyes staring, ablaze with silent questions, expressions glowing as they bared their souls, as they spoke of things they’d never thought to someday be a possibility. 
> 
> “It’s like,” John paused, blinked, and then chuckled, “It’s like its doubled.”
> 
> Sherlock frowned, and cleared his throat, voice barely more than a whisper, “What?”
> 
> “I’m absolute shite at explaining these kinds of things but,” John shrugged and turned back to face the ceiling, shutting his eyes and smiling, warm and genuine, “for some reason, now, everything seems even more surreal, even more magical.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not as long as I'd like but I didn't want to make you guys wait anymore.  
> Wow, SO much has happened since I last updated and I'm so sorry for the wait.  
> But here it is! I won't keep you waiting with lame excuses so voila! Enjoy Radar!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support.   
> It means so much to me and every comment from you all warms my heart.  
> Thank you again. I hope you like the aftermath of the big reveal. Happy reading!

 

“Stop staring.”

“Sorry?” John blinked away his daze and met Sherlock’s eyes properly, arching a soft brow in confusion.

“You’ve been staring at me since you sat down,” Sherlock sighed heavily and flipped the page of the tattered, worn notebook he was scribbling furiously in, now entirely out in the open.

“I have?” John swallowed and turned away, glancing down at his untouched lunch tray and frowning in thought.

Sherlock hummed a confirmation his way, his ethereal eyes lifting off of his elegant scrawl and focusing directly on John, the rugby captain sitting eerily still, his brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. He inhaled sharply at the sight, and with a sigh, shut the thick form of his notebook and placed both his hands in a prayer position beneath his chin.

“Is this going to be an issue?”

John glanced back up, eyes wide and jaw open just slightly, perplexed and unaware, “What?”

“This. Me, being — you know. Because in my defense, you were never supposed to find out, no one was, and I —“ Sherlock stopped mid sentence, brows creasing the skin above his nose as they furrowed, heart faltering slightly in his chest as he followed John’s line of sight, the boy distracted once more, to his long, spindly fingers, now dropping slowly from his chin towards the table, John’s golden head following suit.

“Magic hands,” John whispered, low beneath his breath, before a smile broke out across his expression, warm and real and bright and everything Sherlock loved about the rugby captain.

He held his breath as the blonde reached forward and took hold of Sherlock’s fingers, examining them with utmost concentration, as though the digits were out of this world, not of this earth, surrealistic in their ways. He was studying Sherlock as though he were something extraordinary, and Sherlock was entirely new to the sensation.

He watched John swallow, blink, and slowly drop his hand, gently placing it down once more and turning away, laughing softly and shaking his head. “Amazing,” he breathed lightly and poked at his untouched lunch tray.

Sherlock tucked his hands in his lap and tried to fight the blush from forming along his sharp cheekbones, “What is?”

John scoffed, frowned, and then smiled, as if pleased he was aware of something Sherlock wasn’t, “You are, genius.”

_Well. No fighting off the blush now._

Sherlock fidgeted nervously, gazing down at the fingers John had just touched, shutting his eyes for a moment to regain his footing, before looking once more to where John had gone back to his staring, blank and focused, daunting and oddly unnerving.

“John,” he growled out, turning his head away and glancing out at the crowds amongst them in the busy cafeteria, catching Wilkes’ eye for a mere moment, his blood running cold when the boy smirked, wide and vehemently, before he quickly looked away, brows drawing forwards into a frown.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” John chuckled, shaking his head yet again and shrugging his shoulders lightly, as though his body were acting out of his control. “I can’t help it; I’m still processing.” 

Sherlock could feel Sebastian’s eyes on him, breaking his skin, heavy and blazing, and he quickly moved to tuck his notebook away and into his backpack. “Then process elsewhere.”

John had seemingly begun to pout and Sherlock was two seconds from apologizing for every slightly cruel thing he may have ever said to the boy, the look on his absolutely pitiful, and too fucking adorable for his own good.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” John sighed, smiling that warm smile again, looking so very apologetic and, Christ, so very beautiful, “you’re just—“

He paused, let out a puff of amused air, and then beamed brightly Sherlock’s way, saying, once more, “Amazing.”

 

 

**. . .**

_Earlier_

 

If Sherlock was being frank, if he was being entirely honest, he’d been an idiot. No, actually he’d been at Anderson levels of stupidity. He hadn’t taken the proper precautions, hadn’t turned his back from the door, out of view, hadn’t even thought to lock it, assuming he’d be done and out in no time; he certainly hadn’t expected John to act chivalrous right then and there of all times but hell — he should’ve known. Chivalry isn’t _fucking_ _dead_. 

“Holy shit,” John managed to make out, his lips the only movement his body could physically make given the current situation, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest.

Snatching his phone from where John held it clenched between his fingers, his hand floating atop the sink, where he’d originally intended to set it down in his oh-so-noble ways, Sherlock pushed past the boy and back into the hall, face blank and emotionless, hoping, somehow, he still had a chance to play this all off as John’s imagination running wild.

“Holy,” John inhaled sharply and pushed out an incredulous laugh, “shit.”

Maybe not.

“I’m glad your knowledge of the English language extends so very far,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes to himself, if only to settle the blooming panic rising in his gut, his head pounding, his heart clenching, his body trembling internally at the very thought that his most daunting of secrets, most important, had just been thoroughly and royally revealed because of his own daft ways.

“I’m such an idiot,” John giggled, high pitched and slightly hysterical as he followed Sherlock back into his room, where the lanky brunette was stuffing his drenched clothes carelessly into his backpack.

“How did I not put two and two together?” John asked aloud to himself, mind imploding, his eyes impossibly wide, watching the boy before him in both shock and awe — here he was, the boy he adored in his reality and the dancer of his dreams, one in the same.

“I think it’s best I leave,” Sherlock reached down and yanked his backpack up atop his shoulders, slipping his arms through the straps and ignoring the rugby captain observing his every move.

John watched, carefully, as Sherlock reached for the duffel bag in an attempt to flee, quick as possible, but without much self-control he darted forwards and heaved it away in one solid pull, clutching it tight to his stocky form and staring at Sherlock’s blanched expression, the brunette’s eyes wide, body frozen.

John Watson slid the zipper down and dropped the bag to the floor, pale pink dancer’s shoes greeting him as he stared into the casing, jaw dropping in utter shock at the final confirmation, his heart fluttering far to quickly in his chest.

“Holy shit!” John laughed brightly, positively beaming now, as he glanced up to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

But the brunette looked nothing but pained, his entire figure stiff and tense, before he snatched the duffel bag up, open zipper and all and pushed past John’s position by the door, zooming out into the corridor and darting for the exit.

John swore beneath his breath and took off after him, sprinting from his room and in pursuit of the boy, his fingers shaking just slightly with the adrenaline of his discovery and the overwhelming notion of it all. Of course it was him — who else made sense? It was all so very clear now, to John. Everything was clear, and real, and he understood. He truly understood even if he wasn’t sure what there was to understand.

“Sherlock, wait!” He called out and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, just as the boy placed his slender fingers on the flat’s front door handle.

“I’d prefer you didn’t go through my things,” The deep baritone growled out, and John swallowed the knot in his throat, his mind whirling with revelation and apology.

“Sherlock,” John breathed out, closing his eyes for a moment to calm his edged nerves, his thumping heart, the excitement pumping through his veins. He moved his hand from the boy’s shoulder to his elbow, tugging slightly in an attempt to turn the genius around. 

The brunette whirled to face him, a snarl present on his expression, his features no longer graceful, no longer fearful or concerned, the creases in his brow and beside his eyes simply telling of his anger, of his outrage.

“Let _go_ ,” He snapped, clearly hurt by John’s earlier actions, gripping the duffel bag tight to his side as though it were his lifeline, the only thing keeping him afloat.

“I’m sorry,” John winced and dropped his hand.

Sherlock swallowed, blinked and ducked his head, eyes resigned, body still on edge yet somewhat sullen in muted surrender.

“ _Stay_ ,” John asked, blue, ocean eyes wide and pleading, genuine and sincere, hoping with every thing he was that Sherlock wouldn’t vanish behind that door.

“I can’t,” Sherlock uttered, hushed and quiet, trying desperately to hide the lie.

“Please?” John begged, lifting his hand again, this time asking permission as it went, gentle and soft as he placed it against Sherlock’s shoulder once more, fingers squeezing just slightly.

“I promise I’ll behave this time,” John added with a small smirk, warm and inviting.

At that, Sherlock glanced at him with a careful, cautious smile, thought for a moment, readjusted his hold on the duffel bag, and then, finally, nodded.

 

**. . .**

 

_Channel: watsonmyface_

_Subscribers: 30,213_

 

_Channel: theballetbee_

_Subscribers: 11,987_

 

**. . .**

 

Sitting atop John’s navy bed, hugging his planet shaped pillow against his chest and staring down at the ground was not how he had planned to spend his evening — not that he’d given his evening a lot of thought, but it certainly wasn’t _this_ , nor was anything currently transpiring _involved_. John was sat at his computer chair, elbows resting on his knees, head up and eyes wide, jaw just slightly open as though merely looking at Sherlock were causing him a sensation of great awe, bewildering the very core of his mind. Though he wouldn’t admit the simple fact, Sherlock was, frankly, terrified — full on scared off his head, worried and plagued with dread because what did this mean now? What was going to happen?

“You’re _theballetbee_ ,” John said, and Sherlock startled a bit, jumping from his skin before he tugged the pillow in his arms closer and nodded.

He watched as John ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, closing his eyes a moment, as though in thought, before giggling loudly, high-pitched and somewhat manic as he focused his attention on Sherlock again.

“So,” John blinked, frowned, smiled and shrugged a shoulder, leaning forwards in his chair, a moment of silence passing by before he swallowed and glanced back up, “you’re _theballetbee_.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes then, tossing the pillow aside and scowling at the rugby captain, sitting so very adorable across from him, his hair ruffled in the chaos that had transpired and his frown lines deeper than usual as he frantically tried to put the pieces together, his brain finally catching up with the entirety of what had just gone down moments before.

“I am _theballetbee_ ,” Sherlock snapped out, biting at his bottom lip and sighing, “Shall I say it again?”

John stood, quick and sudden, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, inching back a bit on the bed and watching the blonde boy curiously.

“So, it was you. In the studio. The other day,” John spun around to meet his eyes, those two blue hues burning through him as he awaited Sherlock’s answer, attention fixated on his lips, as though he’d only believe his words if he saw them come from his very mouth.

“When you rudely bashed through the front door? Yes,” Sherlock spat, and though he went for a strong, forceful tone, trying to appear bold, unbothered, his voice only shook, weak and hoarse with worry and fear of what his future held now.

“And you were shooting a video.” 

“Yes.”

“Of which you uploaded. To YouTube.”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re a YouTuber.” 

“ _Yes_.”

“Because you’re _theballetbee_.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock huffed and kicked himself out of a sitting position, falling down onto his back atop the duvet, his brow furrowing and his eyes hardening in mild irritation, though his heart tingled in slight amusement. “ _Yes_.”

He observed as John frowned down at the ground, blinking rapidly to himself once more, before his entire expression lit up and he whirled around, mouth flying open in curious joy, body and stance wide and erratic, “Am I the only one that knows?”

“The only one aside from my brother,” Sherlock admitted, because what was the point in hiding things now? John knew. John knew and there was no going back and Sherlock hated that his heart was happy he’d shared his biggest secret with the boy he loved; and yet his mind was berating his entire being for being so careless.

John’s face fell a little but he shrugged and moved to sit next to Sherlock’s prone figure atop the navy blankets, staring down at where the brunette lay sprawled out across its entirety, chocolate curls pooling around his head like a crown, kaleidoscope eyes bright and nervous.

John watched him for a moment before he, too, fell down into a horizontal position beside Sherlock, their shoulders touching, hips only a few inches apart, lying identically, side by side, in the quiet of John’s peaceful bedroom, the rain falling down outside the only sound aside from their breathing. 

“I watch you all the time,” John whispered into the quiet, “ _all the time_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s cheeks burned, his limbs tingled, his fingers trembled and his heart sped up, and he resisted the awfully compelling temptation to reach over, place his hand against John’s jaw and make their lips _dance_. Instead, Sherlock held his tongue and stared up at the ceiling.

“You were like this untouchable _thing_ ,” John muttered, more as if he were chatting amongst himself, “this person that didn’t _exist_ , this surreal being that I thought I’d never be able to meet, let alone lay next to on my bed — bloody hell.” He took a breath and let out a chuckle, “ _Christ_ ; I mean, all this time. Eating lunch together, texting in Lit class, doing these _normal_ things — and I didn’t even _know_.”

“I suppose it must feel different now,” Sherlock finally murmured, voice low and soft, deep as it rumbled out alongside John’s own, whilst he determinedly, desperately, tried not to meet the boy’s eyes, his breath catching in his throat as he winced. “Now that you know the truth. Now that you’ve _seen_ me, now that you know I’m not some surreal, untouchable being; the magic is gone.”

“No, it’s not,” John said, quickly, and Sherlock couldn’t help it — he turned to look at him, their face so very close, their eyes staring, ablaze with silent questions, expressions glowing as they bared their souls, as they spoke of things they’d never thought to someday be a possibility.

“It’s like,” John paused, blinked, and then chuckled, “It’s like its doubled.”

Sherlock frowned, and cleared his throat, voice barely more than a whisper, “What?”

“I’m absolute shite at explaining these kinds of things but,” John shrugged and turned back to face the ceiling, shutting his eyes and smiling, warm and genuine, “for some reason, now, everything seems even more surreal, even more magical.”

Sherlock stared at the boy next to him, took in the swoop of his edged jaw, the curve of his throat, the lashes atop his eyelids that stood soft and gentle against the tan nature of his complexion; he stared at the warmth behind that gaze and felt his heart soar.

He’d never believed in _“the one._ ” That person everyone found that completed them like the last piece of a puzzle or the other half of a sandwich or the jam tucked inside of a Jammie Dodger. He’d never believed in finding someone he’d find himself lost without, find himself missing all the time, find himself wanting to say all the things he found cute about his nose or the soft highlights in his hair or the way he looked in rugby shorts. And yet, here he was, going as far as to stare at John and think, ‘yep, he’s my destiny.’

“Do you know what I mean?” He heard John ask, and the blonde turned once more to meet his eyes.

“Yes,” Sherlock uttered, “Yes, I do.”

 

* * *

_Current_

 

 

 

 

“Come on,” John sulked, placing his elbows on the lunch table and his chin against his palms, a slight smirk in the curve of those lips, “I already told you I’ve been watching you for ages and the fact that you’re him — that he’s _you_ , well. You know.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, swallowing the knot of nerves forming deep in his gut, his stomach rolling in ever-present anxiety, his mind swelling with thoughts of John telling the world, spreading his supposed secret to all of Baker, the taunts in the hallway far worse than ever before — _twinkle toes, fairy, fag in tights_ ringing in his ears.

“Clearly you’re aware it’s a secret,” Sherlock stated as calmly as he could possibly manage.

John scoffed and nodded, finally lifting a spooned scoop of baked beans to his lips and munching happily on his now cold school lunch, “‘Course.”

Sherlock blinked, glanced around the cafeteria, ignored the eyes gazing upon John as though he were mentally unstable for sitting with _‘the freak,_ ’ and studied the boy speculatively, a brow arched at his short response. 

“You’re aware that secrets are _not_ supposed to be told, yes?”

John looked smug as his eyes met Sherlock’s yet again, and he bobbed his head once, twice, three times before shrugging a single shoulder, “That _is_ why they call them secrets after all.”

Sherlock huffed and turned away, lips drawing downwards in a frazzled pout as John beamed up at him, carton of milk in hand and eyes bright with mirth.

“So,” The brunette muttered shyly, staring at the table and sticking his hands into his sweatshirt’s front pockets, finger clenching inwards and outwards, frantic with indecision, “you won’t tell anyone?”

He met the rugby captain’s eyes and was surprised to find a somewhat sad look there, John’s expression soft and glum, features narrowed and brows furrowed, lips pursed and shoulders hunched forward, the entirety of his figure attentive and serious, as though the words Sherlock was saying were nothing short of _most important_.

“Sherlock,” John stated, loud and earnest, “you can trust me.”

Sherlock swallowed and dropped his eyes, berating himself for ever doubting that face in a second.

“Though, Molly will _actually_ murder me if she ever finds out I knew and didn’t tell her,” John added, leaning back and poking at a strange meaty substance atop his tray with the end of a plastic fork, shrugging his shoulders and trying with a lack of serious effort not to smile, “so if you’re willing to be a person of interest in a murder case, fine by me.”

“I find murder incredibly interesting,” Sherlock smirked, meeting John’s bright blue eyes, warm and humorous.

“You might not when you’re brought down as an accomplice.”

“Scotland Yard wouldn’t _dare_.”

John chuckled, high pitched and far too adorable for Sherlock’s well being, “That’s right; you’re far too clever to get caught anyway.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks redden and he quickly ducked his head, listening to John snickering before him as he gently turned away, his heart hammering in his chest at being called _clever_ by the boy he so desperately looked up to. He thought about how John now knew the biggest, most important thing about him, the thing he was most proud of, most eager to hide, the thing only one other person was aware of, and yet he sat here and chatted amongst him as though nothing was different.

If he were a crier, and he wouldn’t tell anyone that he secretly was when no one was looking, Sherlock would've broken down in a sob right then and there — because here was this boy, John Watson, without anything to say except, ‘ _Amazing_.’

“Hey,” John said softly, knocking Sherlock lightly from his thoughts, warmth in his voice and, as Sherlock lifted his head, sincerity and excitement in his eyes, “Can I watch you one day?”

Sherlock blinked and frowned, “Pardon?” 

“Dance. Can I watch you dance one day?” John grinned, leaning forwards and setting his forearms on the table’s surface, intrigue and question in the creases and curves of his expression. 

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock snapped, tapping his phone to check the time and realizing, with a wince, that lunch was nearing an end. 

“What?” John gaped at him, falling back in his seat, shoulders dropping and body droopy with devastation and as much as Sherlock regretted upsetting him, this was just something he could not allow.

“Why not?” The rugby captain asked curiously, lifting his carton for another sip of chocolate milk.

“Because people don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Watch me.”

“But they watch you everyday, on your channel,” John stated, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in confusion as he awaited Sherlock’s response, his lunch now entirely forgotten.

Sherlock sighed, shook his head and shoved his phone into his back pocket, “They watch the _Bee_ , this _anonymous_ figure, this _mysterious_ dancer.” 

He reached for his backpack, and got to his feet,  “They don’t watch _me_.” 

John followed, grabbing his own things and shoving his tray into the trashcan beside their table, before moving to stand beside Sherlock, with eager ocean eyes, “So let me be the first. To watch you. As _you_.”

Sherlock was at a loss for words, momentarily rendered speechless as he stood there, John so very close, his heart so very warm and frantic, his mouth dry as he gazed at that golden hair, the specks of brown in a pool of blue, the curve of those lips that had just formed words he’d never imagined he’d need to hear.

But, quick as he could, vulnerability far too close to its edge, far too apparent, Sherlock turned his head away and swallowed, “No.”

Fortunately, John didn’t seem all too put out, leaning back and playfully scowling his way, turning as they both moved to exit the cafeteria, the bell for their next class ringing through their ears and other students filing out in immediate action.

“You’ve seen me,” John added as they made their way out the doors, “in _action_ , that is.”

Sherlock smirked and glanced at him, “Ah, yes, but _you_ invited me to.”

John paused, blinked, frowned and then gazed over at him, “Touché, Mr. Holmes. Touché.”

Sherlock let out a light chuckle and the two of them turned in the direction of their next class.

 

* * *

 

 **Twitter User:** watsonmyface

John H. Watson

_Stick around if you want to know what’s on my face today. :)_

 

 _Following:_ 38

 _Followers_ : 28,321

 

John H. Watson: Okay, but have you ever found yourself so deeply infatuated that you’re sorta at a loss of what to do about it so it just comes out in the weirdest ways, like when you look at a box of cereal or drink your favourite tea?

 

> Abigail W. @ _abbysmithh_ : um
> 
> Beeface for days @ _yourotpismyotp_ : HELLO YES, WHOMST
> 
> Lady Lousie @ _ladylightning_ : holy hell John who the heckity heck
> 
> Demon Dean @ _heynowitsmeyaboi_ : soooooooo wanna enlighten us
> 
> LuLu @ _lululovesyou_ : yes omg, this girl in my class wow ;-;
> 
> Bif Bof @ _bifbarkbof_ : me @ my gf
> 
> Johnlock is Key boiissss @ _lockedforlyfe_ : John, oh my fucking god. WHO.
> 
> Mars @ _johnandspace_ : me @ you?????
> 
> Lady White @ _gimmeawforwatson_ : um me with you though
> 
> Jane Watson @ _ilovehisface_ : I love you and I think of you when I do legit anything wow
> 
> Bunny @ _honeyandtea_ : aw John omg
> 
> Wolfgirl @ _howlatmelads_ : stop being cute dude
> 
> _Load 19,121 more comments…_

 

John H. Watson: I just sneezed — I better not be ill.

 

> Lilly Bird @ _flyhomeflyaway_ : you poor thing, drink plenty of water and sleep!
> 
> The Storyteller @ _richardbrooke_ : Careful, Johnny Boy.
> 
> Gay May @ _gayandilikeit_ : may the gods bless you, mate
> 
> Jessica @ _johnlockismykink_ : BLESS YOU
> 
> Chris R. @ _chrislovesjohn_ : uh cuteness
> 
> _Load 2,857 more comments…_

 

Retweeted by John H. Watson

> Halsey Lyrics @ _halseylyricsforyou_ :
> 
> _To my lover, I’d never lie._
> 
> _He said, “Be true,” I swear, “I’ll try.”_
> 
> _In the end, it’s him and I. Him and I._

 

* * *

 

In Literature class, as their plump teacher in her vintage skirt blabbered on about Romeo’s heroics and Juliet’s devotion, John discreetly pulled out his cellphone, glancing over at Sherlock of whom was staring, dead-eyed at Ms. Montgomery, chin resting on his fist, and brain entirely tuned out to whatever words were coming out of her lipstick clad mouth. His mind was a constant whirlwind of unanswered questions, his brain still processing, still coming to terms with the fact that _theballetbee_ was in fact Sherlock bloody Holmes. And it should have been obvious — who else could be _that_ brilliant? He was a dancing genius, clever and graceful, soft and yet firm in the best of ways, and both clandestine and vulnerable: perfect in John’s eyes.

Lifting the small device upwards, hidden between his stomach and the bottom of his desk, his fingers expertly went to work, questions coursing through his mind at rapid speed.

 

_Why do you stay anonymous?_

 

He waited, leaning back in his chair and lightly clearing his throat, just loud enough that Sherlock was knocked from his reverie and glancing over his shoulder, eyeing John curiously before feeling the light vibration of his mobile, tucked away in his back pocket. He reached back, sneakily and tactfully, and slowly brought the device forward, those kaleidoscope eyes shimmering in the glow of the screen. He watched the boy’s thumbs fly over the touch-sensitive keyboard before his own phone buzzed against his palm.

 

_Because it would ruin everything if I didn’t. - SH_

 

John frowned at his phone, brows turning downward in confusion, head tilting slightly to the side, and before he formed a response, he glanced over at the sender, eyeing the way he stared straight ahead, as though his answer to John’s question were nothing to be perplexed about — as though it were simple fact.

 

_Why?_

 

He watched Sherlock blink, and then go about his next message.

 

_Because I’m me. - SH_

 

John scoffed inwardly, leaning back at his desk and casually tapping at his screen, shaking his head and officially drowning out the lecture his literature teacher was still subjecting the class to — something about Romeo being “ _dreamy_ ”?

 

 _That would make me_ want _to subscribe to you._

 

He lifted his eyes, and was instantly glad he did, the sight of Sherlock quirking that small, timid, uncertain smile worth so many precious things all in one — John would be content to see that smile for the rest of his days if he’d been given the option to.

 

_Unfortunately, you’re one in a million, John. - SH_

 

John beamed at the device in his hand, and did his best to hide the reddening of his cheeks, glancing up to take in the classroom, all eyes mostly focused on their instructor or the playbooks before them, Anderson listening enthusiastically, and Molly — oh. Molly Hooper was staring directly at him, a dark smirk on her expression, clearly aware of just what he was up to, her eyes darting knowingly to Sherlock and back his way, one brow arched in mute question. In one smooth movement, Molly slid her phone from the smallest pocket in her purse and let her fingers go to work.

John swallowed, smiled wearily and then dropped his gaze to his phone.

 

_You flirt. - M_

 

John held back a chuckle, and sighed in amusement.

 

_Actually, he’s the one saying nice things. For the moment._

 

He watched as Molly held her hand to her mouth, obviously struggling to hide her grin, before she fiddled with the keyboard of her mobile once more.

In the meantime, he reopened his and Sherlock’s box of messages, and began his reply. 

 

_I think you should._

 

The response was almost instant.

 

_Should what? - SH_

 

John rolled his eyes.

 

_Do a big reveal or something._

 

His phone buzzed once, and John switched back to Molly’s chat-box, his fingers protesting with all the errant tapping, before he narrowed his eyes and read the text in front of him.

 

_So, are you moving in? - M_

 

_Sorry, what?_

 

_On the target, genius. Make your move! - M_

 

John blushed and lifted his head to gaze over at Sherlock, the boy flicking slowly at his phone screen, a few of his curls falling lazily against his forehead, soft and chocolatey, ruffled yet curved to perfection — John longed to run his fingers through them.

 

_Molly. I’m not sure I’m entirely ready for that. Nor if this is a good time._

 

With a frazzled sigh, he switched back to his conversation with Sherlock, feeling like a rather insipid pre-teen, gushing over his crush with his best friend, and chatting with the very person at the very same time. His face fell farther, however, as he read Sherlock’s quick, to the point reply — a solid, straightforward:

 

_No. - SH_

 

John pursed his lips.

 

_They’d all love you._

 

_No, they wouldn’t. - SH_

 

_Sherlock._

 

_John. - SH  
_

 

John let out a frustrated huff, before realizing just where he was; Ms. Montgomery’s eyes dropped to his slouched form, and within mere moments he was fixed with her god-awful glare, eyes wide open, brows lifted in challenge, lips puckered in annoyance. He quickly shot her an attentive smile, lifted his hand in a gesture for her to continue, and flipped haphazardly through his playbook. She scowled, shot him a nod in warning, and went back to her arduous lecture.

He glanced at Sherlock, of whom was smirking — of course he bloody was, the git — and slowly shook his head, grabbing at his phone once more, left forgotten in his lap, and typing away at his keyboard.

 

_You’d get even more attention, you know._

 

He watched Sherlock roll his eyes.

 

_Oh, yes because I want more attention. - SH_

 

John bit his lip.

 

_Don’t you?_

 

The reply was confident and to the point, an end to the conversation, a solid statement that left John entranced, that left him thinking, and reeling, and his heart clenching over the very fact that _theballetbee_ was the one saying it to him.

 

_As long as I’m dancing or composing, I couldn’t care less. I don’t do it for them, I do it for me. - SH_

 

John smiled, inhaled sharply, calmed the uncoiling adoration in his gut, and typed out:

 

_That’s why you’re amazing._

 

* * *

 

John’s smile was practically woven into his expression for the majority of the day, his mind on Sherlock, on Sherlock’s words, on texting Sherlock, on seeing Sherlock — Christ, his head was simply a bucket of everything that pertained to Sherlock and while it was entirely distracting, it kept John in a solidly pleasant mood till the very last bell of the day. He despised the fact that he had makeup practice, his thoughts far too preoccupied with _better_ things, but he let the disappointment of having to wave Sherlock goodbye after class at the back of his mind, sighing and forcing himself to open his gym locker, holding on to his happy thoughts and setting forth a plan to race through practice with ease, so he could get home and text his friend to his heart’s content once more. 

“You’re happy,” A voice said beside him, and John turned, watching as Greg Lestrade stood beside him, opening his own metal locker and forcing a small, shy smile.

John beamed back at him, nodding his head and letting out a soft laugh, “Been a good day so far.” 

He watched as Greg reached forwards to grab out his rugby clothes for practice, his dark brown eyes still fixated on John, brows arched curiously, whilst he remained silent, a look flashing across his features that said, _‘I want to know but I’m not going to ask.’_

John smiled to himself and reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting the material up off his head and frowning thoughtfully; the two boys continued to undress and redress for their practice without interruption — at least until Sebastian Wilkes, Sebastian Moran and James Sholto came striding into the locker room, heads held high and permanent sneers across their hardened faces. John instantly ducked his head and rolled his eyes, patience already wearing thin, reminding himself not to let some plonker like Wilkes ruin his perfect day. He glanced over at Greg, noting how frustrated his friend looked as he shoved his school clothes aside, lips drawn significantly downwards.

He listened to the lot of them chatting amongst themselves, walking around and past the collection of gym lockers with ease, voices loud and irritating, echoing in the enclosed space.

 

“Says he has _connections_ ,” He heard Wilkes scoff from the other side of the room, “whatever the fuck that means.”

“It’s true,” Moran spat out, “I’ve worked with him before. He helped me out a few months back. He’s the real deal.”

“What? How’d you find him then?” James Sholto asked rather vehemently.

“Victor introduced me.”

“ _Vic_ knew ‘im?” Wilkes asked, and from what it sounded like, he was surprised, though perhaps more along the lines of perplexed bemusement, “How? The bloke doesn’t even go here.”

“Vic did a year at that private school in Berkshire, remember? West of here. Apparently they shared a few classes or something.”

“Bloody hell, right. Forgot he was a prude before he came here,” Wilkes muttered and the group of them broke into a fit of chuckles just as they rounded the wall of lockers and finally came into view.

 

John frowned and lifted his head, storing their conversation in the back of his mind and watching as the three of them strode over to go about grabbing their own things, Wilkes meeting his eyes briefly to smirk, before ignoring him once more. He felt Greg tense beside him, noticed how quickly he was tugging on his gear, clearly eager to get out of the room, and, frankly, John didn’t blame him. The rugby captain stood tall, however, throwing the rest of his kit on and slamming his locker door shut, turning slowly to pat at Greg’s shoulder, the silver haired boy glancing his way and nodding. They turned to leave, keeping their eyes away from their other team members, and John found he was fully prepared to never have to speak to Wilkes again — but the moment was short-lived, and within an instant he heard that deep, wolfish voice beckon from behind him.

“How’s the boyfriend, John?”

John swallowed and glanced down, expression hardening before he turned and arched a brow, shrugging a single shoulder Wilkes’ way, smirking lightly, “I’m single, mate. Why? You interested?” 

Sholto and Moran snickered at his words and he watched as Sebastian scowled momentarily, before his features yet again took on their amused look, all smooth and leering, as though every word that he spoke should be written down and framed on the wall.

“You know,” Sebastian slammed his hand down across the door of his locker, shutting it swiftly, and took a few steps forward toward John, a wide grin lifting his expression, his teeth bared, a chuckle beginning to rumble, low and deep in his throat, “We used to be friends, John.”

“No,” John snapped and shook his head, “We were _never_ friends.”

Wilkes leaned back in mock hurt and glanced over at Sholto and Moran, pouting teasingly and placing his hand atop his heart, looking as though he’d just been slapped by his mother. 

“You _wound_ me, John,” He then snarled, taking another step closer, “You’ve gone and replaced us with that _freak_.”

John narrowed his eyes and stood his ground as Wilkes drew nearer and nearer, head cocked challengingly, smirk in place across those cruel, brute-like features.

“What does he have to offer that we don’t?” Sebastian paused, blinked, and then smiled, nodding his head as though he’d just remembered something, “Oh, yeah. He sucks your _cock_.”

John instantly flew forward, snatching Sebastian Wilkes up by his rugby jersey and slamming the boy in the lockers next to him, growling angrily as he stared into his team members eyes, his own burning with rage, his lips curving downward in utter loathing.

“Maybe I just got tired of hearing you _speak_ ,” John snapped, drawing his arms back in order to slam him against the metal surface once more, only to feel hands on his shoulders, pulling at him. He glanced over his shoulder with one swift turn of his head and took note of Lestrade’s worried expression and the angry faces of Sholto and Moran just behind him.

With a scowl, he dropped the rugby player and turned towards the exit once more, Greg’s hand remaining a comforting presence atop his shoulder, as he left Sebastian Wilkes behind him, laughing at his turned back. He sped out of the gym locker room without another look back, and into the fresh air just outside, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heartbeat, his thoughts afire with outrage. Never had he felt such hatred for another person before — so much so it was, honestly, slightly terrifying. Sure, he’d never liked Wilkes, frankly he’d found him repulsive, but _now_? Now, if someone left the two of them alone on an island, side by side, he’d surely kill Sebastian Wilkes without a day to spare, merely for some peace and quiet.

 

“Christ, John,” Greg said from behind him before he moved and took hold of both John’s shoulders, shaking him a little, or perhaps shaking some sense back into him, “Are you out of your mind?”

John scoffed and glanced up at his friend, sighing and lifting a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose, irritation and frustration swelling to the forefront of his mind, and, much to his disdain, clouding the earlier moments of his day he’d been so very pleased about.

“Sorry, mate,” He huffed and turned to head towards the rugby field, dragging his feet with dread and listening as Greg moved to catch up with him; the two of them walking side by side, John stiff with fading anger and Greg tense with the excitement of what had just transpired.

“So, what,” Greg snapped out, glancing at John with curiously suspicious eyes, “Are you on Wilkes’ bad side now?”

“Wasn’t I already?” John scoffed and kicked at the dirt as they walked.

“You were on his radar, but you weren’t his bloody _target_ , John!” Lestrade growled, shaking his head irritably and groaning as he lifted a palm to his forehead.

John just shrugged, walking on without a passing glance at his friend, unfazed by his words, unbothered, and certainly unmoved. He would’ve continued to press on, to stare forward, if Lestrade hadn’t gripped his forearm tight and tugged him around to face him, the two of them stopping in the middle of the rugby field, Greg looking terribly frightened and John staring back in irritated confusion. 

“What?” John scowled, snatching his arm back from his friend’s grip and glaring forwards.

“Can you at least act a _little_ worried?” Greg pleaded, his brows drawing down in concern, his shoulders hunching, limbs hanging lifelessly. 

“Wilkes doesn’t scare me.”

“He bloody _should_!”

“I can _handle_ it, Greg,” John scoffed and shook his head, turning and moving to walk away once more, but Greg yanked him back again — but this time he didn’t look worried or frustrated or angry. No, Greg looked _sad_. His eyes were on the floor and his head was ducked and his body was closed in, expression curved down at every angle, a hand lifting to ruffle his hair before dropping once more, resigned and disappointed.

John suddenly felt incredibly guilty.

“Look,” John sighed, “I can’t be friends with someone like that, okay? Not even if its pretend just so I don’t get my arse kicked.” 

He watched as the corner of Greg’s lips lifted in an amused smile before the silver haired boy inhaled deeply and raised his dark eyes to meet John’s. He nodded his head and dropped his tight grip on John’s arm, the two turning to walk once more towards the pitch. It was silent for the several steps they did take, but eventually Greg was clearing his throat and nervously glancing his way, a question on his lips as they drew nearer and nearer to their intended destination.

“You like him, don’t you?” Greg said, a little more quietly, curiosity and sincerity laced within the sound, a voice that fell soft at the end, harmless and careful, “I mean like _really_ like him. Like, not _just friends_ like him.”

John smirked and glanced at him, a brow arching mockingly, “Seb? That’s _disgusting_ , mate.”

Greg let out a relieved laugh, a serious question turned humorous by the warmth in John’s tone, but he quickly shook his head and shot John a careful smile, relaxed yet agog, “Sherlock, you git.”

John beamed and looked down at the green grass beneath their cleats, letting out a soft breath of air and shrugging a single shoulder, effortlessly turning to his friend and nodding, once, stating a firm, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Greg didn’t look revolted nor disgusted nor perturbed — which John knew he wouldn’t be, not after his words only days before, but he didn’t expect his friend to look so _happy_. So relieved and overjoyed and pleased; hell, he looked positively chipper.

“Have you told him?” Greg asked, brows lifted and expression warm, sincere.

“Not yet,” John sighed and pursed his lips, “I think I will soon, though. If I grow the balls to.”

Greg chuckled, “Good. I’d started getting worried you were gonna end up with another one like Sarah.” 

John let out a sharp laugh and shoved Greg in the shoulder, the silver haired boy stumbling slightly and looking far too amused.

“What about you, though?” John smirked at Greg’s confused frown, “Going to ask Molly out anytime soon?”

His friend turned entirely red at his words and John instantly gave himself a point on his mental tally chart — hypocrites, they were; telling him to make his move with Sherlock when they’d been pining over one another for more than a year.

“I’m _getting_ there,” Greg pressed, glaring playfully John’s way, “Don’t push me.” 

“If I don’t push you, you’ll still be lusting over her from afar when you’re forty, mate.”

“Bloody wanker,” Greg snorted, smacking John upside the head and ruffling his hair, to which he giggled, his heart clenching happily, his shoulders feeling a hell of a lot lighter all of a sudden, the irritated cloud over his brain lifting.

His day was _good_ once again.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock tucked himself beneath the thin duvet atop his mattress, his phone clenched tightly in his fingers, thumb tapping anxiously against the screen, a nervous tick he didn’t know he had. He was gazing about his room erratically, drowning out the loud chattering of the downstairs television, his uncle sprawled out lazily on the couch, far too much scotch in his system. His eyes landed on the folded clothes tucked away in the corner of his plain, mundane room, sitting near an overflowing pile of books — John’s clothes. The one’s he’d been allowed to borrow before the chaos of recent events took place. He cheeks burned at the memory; John seeing his tattoo, that faded black bee he’d gotten on a spontaneous drug-induced haze after his father’s passing, John seeing his ballet shoes and gazing at him with that look of utter bewilderment and awe — that look he always had plastered to his tan, beautiful face; the one that said, ‘ _you’re something special and you had better believe it, mister._ ’

His heart felt lighter, as he laid there, tucked beneath his covers, not at all sleepy but far too desperate to hide from the world — he felt as though the boulder he’d been carrying on his back had been removed by John’s strong arms, a weight lifting, a secret he kept so very dear only his meddlesome brother knew about it. And John had taken that very secret with an endearing smile and a promise to keep it.

He was knocked from his reverie by the buzz of his mobile, and he quickly yanked the duvet over his head and hid in the darkness, tapping the screen and reading the words sprawled across it.

 

_You should get a Twitter._

 

Sherlock smirked and rolled his eyes at the arbitrary statement, shaking his head in the dark of his surroundings and lifting his thumbs frantically, as though the message would soon disappear.

 

_How was rugby practice? - SH_

 

The response was almost immediate, and Sherlock imagined John laying atop his own bed, fresh from a long shower — _it was past seven and John would have been done with practice for forty minutes now_ — muscles sore and tired — _he works too hard, far too hard_ — body pressed up against his navy duvet and head lying on his little planet-shaped pillow — _golden hair contrasting with the shade, bare skin against soft blanket_.

 

_Long, boring, tedious._

 

Sherlock scoffed.

 

_You sound like me. - SH_

 

He smiled to himself and imagined John’s giggle, soft and warm and melodious and _perfect_.

 

_Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing._

 

_Oh, definitely a good thing. - SH_

 

_That so?_

 

Sherlock blushed and huddled deeper into the covers, his heart swelling, the loud shouting from the television downstairs now simply a muted, dull noise, John’s texts far too distracting — _the perfect distraction, better than any of the other distractions he’d experimented with._ His phone buzzed once more before his fingers could go about responding.

 

_You really should though._

 

_Should what? - SH_

 

_Get a Twitter, genius._

 

Sherlock arched a brow.

 

_What for? - SH  
_

 

_I don't know. It's social media. Talk to fans, see funny posts, share your videos._

 

Sherlock blinked and bit his lip thoughtfully, sighing to himself before turning back to his screen just as another message came through, popping up unexpectedly in the chat box; a small grey bubble, mundane font of the worded text black in hue.

 

_And ya know. You can talk to me on there too._

 

Sherlock beamed.

 

_Not that that’s, like, an important point to make, just that its a feature you can, you know, use. It’s just available to you and stuff. Because I have a profile on there and yeah._

 

The brunette laid back against his pillows and stared into the darkness around him, grinning pathetically to himself, a ridiculously happy feeling settling deep in his gut; he moved his thumbs to the screen once more.

 

_Ok. - SH_

 

The buzz came quickly.

 

_Ok?_

 

_I’ll make one. - SH_

 

A few moments passed before Sherlock’s phone lit up once again, the screen bright in the dark setting, illuminating John response clearly before his eyes.

 

_Finally._

 

Sherlock snorted and shook his head.

 

_Oh, have I kept you waiting? - SH  
_

 

_Far too long._

 

 

* * *

 

 **Twitter User:** theballetbee

Bee

_These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder._

 

 _Following:_ 0

 _Followers_ : 1

 

 

_**Notifications:** _

 

 _John Watson (watsonmyface) followed you_.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's Dance:  
> https://youtu.be/7an065mRJAg


End file.
